


Volume 1: Over the Tracks - II

by Anna (arctic_grey)



Series: The Heart Rate of a Mouse [2]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-24 00:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 78,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10730745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctic_grey/pseuds/Anna
Summary: Trigger warnings for entire series:substance abuse (alcohol, pain killers, drugs), childhood abuse, graphic depictions of sex, dubious consent, mentions of underage sex, mention of date rape, mild violence, minor character death.





	1. Him

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warnings for entire series:** substance abuse (alcohol, pain killers, drugs), childhood abuse, graphic depictions of sex, dubious consent, mentions of underage sex, mention of date rape, mild violence, minor character death.

I love Pete. He is honestly the nicest, kindest and most unexploitive fucker around. His unhealthy obsession with the tour bus just goes to show what makes him such an amazing friend, that he cares that much about our environment and comfort. It is not at all a slightly sick and twisted fling with a vehicle. No, it’s heart-warming how he always pats the side of the bus, like maybe he wishes he could fuck it. Even more than Pete, though, I love Joe. God, Joe with his amazing blue eyes and funny jokes. Joe, who always has my back. He is the most altruistic and sympathetic guy ever, never clouded by his ego or self-seeking. So down to earth. It’s amazing.

Pete and Joe. My best friends. I love those guys.

Joe holds my chin. “Ry?”

I smile at him. The club is full of people. I feel nothing. Finally, _finally_ , I am numb.

“This is not groovy,” Pete says, snapping his fingers in front of me.

I mean to tell him not to do that, but the world slips into darkness.

* * *

I wake up with a hangover from hell, shielding my eyes and blinking at the room I’m in. I don’t recognise it. Light is coming in from enormous windows, and I’m lying on a couch in someone’s living room. Humming sounds from somewhere far away, a peaceful melody I don’t think I’ve heard before. Most of the time these days, I wake up in unexpected places, so I’m not particularly worried. I groan and roll onto my side, the world spinning a little. Then everything just tips over, and I clutch the couch but end up on the floor anyway with a painful thud.

“Ow,” I manage and remain where I am, blinking at the ceiling. I feel nauseous. Maybe I’m going to throw up. Would the owner of this place mind if I made a mess?

I hear someone approaching, and then Joe comes into view, but he’s upside down with frizzy locks all over his face. My insides are on fire, throat sore from singing and shouting and alcohol and weed and cigarettes and a long list of other things I no longer remember. It’s like someone has taken a fork and scraped my throat raw with it.

Joe stares down at me. “Breakfast is ready. We need to leave for the airport in half an hour.”

Then Joe is gone, and I am left blinking. Airport?

Standing up is surprisingly difficult. Gravity, damn gravity. Once up, I realise I’m in Joe’s living room. He’s got a nice house that he bought last year with band money. I haven’t been here in a long while so I initially head the wrong way, stumbling into a music room with a dozen guitars on the walls. This could be my house, but I’ve stuck to the small apartment and the chaos. I’m not sure why I’m so reluctant to accept the changes brought on by the band’s success. Having money is a welcomed change, and yet...

I stop by the kitchen doorway, seeing Pete and Joe sitting by the table, talking to each other in hushed voices. I catch ‘on a bender’ before they spot me.

“Ryan,” our manager says, motioning me to sit down. “You want some scrambled eggs?”

I gag involuntarily at the thought of gooey eggs on my plate, hand flying over my mouth. I close my eyes and wait for the nausea to pass, furiously shaking my head.

“No, then,” Pete says, trying to laugh it off though he sounds far from amused.

Breakfast is a mostly quiet affair. Joe gives me a glass of orange juice mixed with vodka, and it’s exactly what I need. I’m glad he remembers that from the life before. It takes me forever to understand what Joe meant about us leaving for the airport, but then it hits me. Back on tour. We’re flying to Tennessee.

I tighten my grip of the glass. Already? But I just- I just got back to LA yesterday. It feels like yesterday. Unpacking my things, finding a shirt in my bag that wasn’t mine at all, but belonged to –

Already? No. I don’t want to.

“What happened last night?” I ask eventually, my voice rough. I’m supposed to be singing to thousands tonight. My voice is shattered. The alcohol wells in my stomach, a constant churn reminding me that I’ve been doing things I can’t actually recall.

“You can thank Pete for that,” Joe says calmly. “He spent two days tracking you down.”

“Huh.”

So I’ve definitely been on a bit of a bender. I didn’t mean to, not exactly. There was always just another party to go to when the last one ended, someone wanting to give me a free ride. I never really understood how handy being famous was until now, how convenient it is to be at the top of the charts.

Fame is never overrated.

Jac comes to Joe’s house right before we have to leave, bringing two suitcases. She packed for me. I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed, insulted or flattered, so I end up going with thinking that at least she’s saved me the trouble. They clearly expect me to go through the bags to make sure it’s all there, but I’m not bothered. What I don’t have, I’ll get on the road.

Jac and I bid our longing goodbyes while the taxi waits outside and Pete impatiently keeps looking at his wristwatch. Jac and I haven’t spent much time together, drifting apart for no obvious reason. We’ve still gotten together, laughed and fucked and fought, which surely is proof of our coupledom. But I’ve been busy partying with new friends, and she’s been busy designing clothes and doing things I don’t want to know about.

I’m pretty sure she’s still fucking Brent on the side too.

“Rock them for me,” she says as a goodbye.

I wink at her. “You got it, babe.”

I wonder if I come across as smooth as I think. Probably not. I most likely look like an underweight, withdrawal-suffering, twenty-something rocker with a hint of self-destruction to perfect my image.

Brent is waiting for us at the airport. He eyes the parting gift Jac gave me: a red and black bead necklace she herself has made. He probably recognises it, but he doesn’t say anything. She gave it to me. I hope that stings.

“Okay, you guys, let’s talk,” Pete says when we’ve made it through security. We’re all present except for Spencer who is making his own way to Memphis, undoubtedly from Cincinnati where his wife and newborn baby are, but Brent, Joe and Pete don’t know that. No one knows except for me, and I have to carry that around with me, pretending nothing is wrong. I have to act like I don’t know what Jac and Brent are up to, I have to fake ignorance to the background of one of our roadies who vanished off the face of the earth, from his loving Mormon family. I know it all, too much, and I don’t think anyone actually appreciates how much I do for this band.

They have no idea, and I accept my fate silently, bitterly, resenting it, the carrier of unwanted secrets.

“Who’s excited about the second leg of the tour?” Pete asks as we sit by Gate 14, waiting for our flight to be called. We stand out in the crowd: me with my long locks curling around my face, Joe with his big, frizzy curls, Brent with his dark brown hair going way past his shoulders. “We’ll have so much fun!” Pete enthuses, checking his papers as I contemplate if it’d work for my benefit to go to the toilet and stick my fingers down my throat, forcing myself to throw up before we board. “We’ve got a day off in Denver! Groovy, right? Oh, in Dallas we’ve got a photo shoot. Time for some fresh pictures! And I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to Salt Lake City!”

“What exactly is there in Salt Lake City?” I ask sharply.

Pete’s brows knit together. “Well, uh... I always thought there’d be a lake? With salty water?”

Joe and Pete start discussing if there actually is such a thing, and Brent says, “There are just Mormons, man, banging away at their seven wives.”

Is that supposed to be funny? It’s not. Joe laughs, but of course he would with his horrible sense of humour. I’m sick of Brent and Joe. I’ve known them for too long. We’ve heard all the jokes and stories. There’s nothing new to share, absolutely no innovation. We need new blood. New ideas. I need to regenerate myself somehow, and this is the wrong crowd for it. Going on tour will solve nothing.

And he will be there.

Fuck, I don’t want to sober up.

“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom,” I inform my companions and follow the toilet signs. My entire body feels weak, like I haven’t gotten any rest since the last show. I’m not mentally or physically prepared to go on tour.

I’m still on my way to the toilet when I spot a familiar face in the crowd, among all the people coming and going, holidays, business trips, honeymoons. I stare, my brain trying to grasp the sudden appearance of someone I wasn’t expecting to see.

The man doesn’t notice me, but I hurry after him, hand landing on his shoulder, and he swirls around with a surprised expression. “Ryan.”

“Jon.”

We stare at each other.

“What you doing in LA?” I ask, knowing that the last time I saw him I told him to go fuck himself, but it’s a small world. We can’t bump into each other like this and not talk, can we? We were buds. For a few days. We clicked. Why did we stop clicking again?

Jon Walker remains an outsider in many ways, but I’d rather talk to a hateful stranger than a resentful friend.

“We were here. The band?” he clarifies, and I spot Tom in the distance, looking our way and then pretending he wasn’t. Doesn’t want to talk to me, obviously. “We’re flying home now.”

Summertime is always hectic for bands. Kids just want to get out, drink, fuck and listen to music, and we’re flying and driving across the States to entertain them. It’s not like Canadian History is incredibly famous, but they’re somewhere in the ‘oh yeah, I think I’ve heard of them’ category, struggling to make it. Ten bucks says they won’t.

“That’s far out. We’re heading to Tennessee, going back on tour after a break.”

“Okay,” Jon shrugs, and it kills the conversation. He looks at me like he is waiting for the punch line. I’m just being polite: we did tour together, after all. I wish I could pretend that I no longer remember why we fell out, but I do. I know he does too. Their drummer started shit with us, and then said drummer got bottled by us, and Jon lied to me and I hated him for letting me see light where there was none, and I don’t know what to say to him now.

I’m not really angry anymore. Surely we can now take a step back and have a good chuckle about it all.

“So Canadian History is doing okay?” I ask when it’s all I can come up with.

Jon opens his mouth, but then Cassie appears by his side, as beautiful as ever, giving me a cold look. “Ryan. What a coincidence,” she says coolly, and Jon wraps an arm around her shoulders. They form a wall, making damn sure I’m not getting through.

“Yeah, small world. We’re going on tour and stuff,” I repeat.

“Oh!” she says and suddenly smiles genuinely. “Is Brendon here?”

I take a step back. There it is.

“No. He’s not,” I manage, and I dare a look at Jon, whose mouth is now a thin line. “Look, about that –”

“If you’re gonna have another go at me for supposedly outing Brendon for being gay, then don’t bother,” Jon grunts. “Your band had more issues with it than we ever did, even if Nate lost control that night. I never told a soul, alright?” Jon says firmly and with slight anger. He looks up when a female voice crackles through the speakers. “And that’s our flight being called. Have a good life, Ryan.”

I stare after Jon and Cassie silently, who walk to Tom, and then Tom shoots a dirty glance my way. I remember Brendon grabbing my hand and pulling me along after we bottled Nate, how Brendon laughed and how that made me feel, how it was soothing. That’s before anything had even happened.

I scoff and look away. I didn’t want to be Jon’s friend, anyway. I’m the star here. He should be flattered I gave him the time of day in the first place.

I hear a soft melody echoing in my head, and I recognise it as one of the songs Jon and I wrote. It was a good song. We could have been something, me and him. The spark was there to make music. Amazing music. And Jon is stuck with mediocre musicians, and I’m stuck with three ungrateful assholes plus Pete.

It’s not right somehow.

Pete comes to find me, clearly convinced I had taken off. We board the plane, and I try to sleep during the flight.

I’d call Jon and work things out if it weren’t for the fact that he’s a liar like the rest of them. I really wish he wasn’t.

* * *

The bus doesn’t have a name, though we keep debating about it. Pete wants to call it Betty the Bus, which has got to be the gayest name of all time. Joe and Brent demand it be called The Love Wagon, and I personally just don’t care. It’s parked behind the venue, and I swear Pete hurries his steps to get to it and pat its side lovingly. That month spent apart must have been really hard on our manager.

“Now she’s been cleaned inside and out during the break, so please, _please_ , don’t make a mess,” Pete implores as the door opens, and the three of us ascend the steps, suitcases with us. The bus is exactly like I remember it, except it looks nearly as shiny as it did on the first day, the first time I got on it and met –

“A month on this thing,” I say disdainfully, and the bunk door opens, revealing Andy and Zack.

“Hey, you’re here!” the guitar tech smiles, and we do one-armed hugs before my band settles down discussing the show tonight. I keep looking around for him, but he doesn’t appear to be on the bus yet. Good. I don’t want to see him, anyway.

Spencer appears from the bunks. I flinch without meaning to, and he holds my gaze, trying to smile. “Hey, guys,” he offers, but not very cheerfully. He doesn’t want to be here. I don’t look at him as I take my bags and head for the back lounge, which is also my nest. It’s where I go hide, and it’s the only decent thing Pete Wentz has ever done for me.

I haven’t seen my former best friend since Tampa. I’ve gone a month without talking to Spencer. I haven’t done that since I met him as a kid. Well, I’m fine. Surely everyone can see that I’m fine and don’t miss him one bit.

I take my time in the nest, puffing pillows and sitting down, feeling the mattress under my ass, giving me some kind of ground. My hands shake slightly as I come down from whatever I’ve been taking. Right now, I want to sleep forever. I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling, hearing the guys talking. I try to pick out one voice, but either it’s not there or I can’t tell it apart. Then I hear Pete’s loud, “Okay, guys, let’s start setting up the gear!”

I try to get some sleep before I get dragged to soundcheck, but my body is too wired, my skin anticipating something my mind refuses to think about. A touch. Hands. Hands that have haunted me for weeks now.

I’ve had time to think about Brendon. Too much time, maybe. But really, I don’t want to be stuck on this bus with a lovesick fag for weeks on end. I shouldn’t have fucked him. It just gave him the wrong impression and who knows what he thinks is going on with us. Nothing is. God, it’s going to be such a _bore_ having him swoon whenever I walk into the room.

A firm knock sounds on the door, followed by Joe’s voice. “Ry, let’s go! Soundcheck!”

The venue fits ten thousand people. It’s sold out. Pete says that all the shows for the rest of the tour are sold out now, and I try not to think about the implications of it, how this is only the start, how we’re still on our way. I know kids have been queuing outside the venue since morning to be front row.

“Here you go,” Pete says as I walk on stage, and he hands me the tour pass. I reluctantly put it around my neck. Back to the chains I go, willingly too, and that makes me the fool.

The roadies are on stage, our gear ready. My palms are sweating, and I wipe them against my jeans. There’s William, curly locks down to his shoulders, wearing light blue bell jeans that are too tight for him and a floral shirt that looks pretty fashionable. And if William is there, then Brendon must be – not here.

“Where’s Brendon?” I ask spontaneously. He’s nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t on the bus, and he’s not in the venue. Something hard settles in my stomach.

“He’s not here,” Pete informs me. “But don’t you worry about that. You just focus your energies on the show.”

“What do you mean he’s not here?” I persist. Is he out getting Brent some grass? Is he back on the tour bus after having seduced a venue worker? Where the hell is the fucker?

“We, um. Don’t know where he is. He was supposed to fly in yesterday, but he didn’t, and William called the motel he was staying at in San Francisco, but he’s not there anymore, so we don’t know. But I’ve got it covered, don’t you worry. We can get someone to take his place if need be. I know you two were a bit friendly –”

“No. We weren’t,” I correct him, quite possibly snapping at our manager, and go get myself a guitar.

He’s not here. He is nowhere to be found. Wouldn’t be the first time he disappears, so really, this is not alarming. Whatever. Maybe he’s gone again, moving onto a new city, doing something different, like a chameleon, and I will never see him again. Vanished. Just a random figure I knew for a handful of weeks.

Or maybe he got caught with his pants down in the wrong place. Maybe his body is in a dumpster somewhere, after being beaten up and raped –

“Did you hear about Brendon?” Spencer asks me, swirling drumsticks in his hands.

“Sure. Whatever.”

Spencer doesn’t have the right to talk to me.

“Well, who the hell is going to look after my gear now?” Brent demands loudly, eyeing the roadies angrily.

William pipes in with, “Look, I’m sure Brendon will show up! He wouldn’t walk out on us, you know?”

“Like fags have morals,” Joe points out.

“Brendon’s love life has nothing to do with his morals!” William argues fiercely, and Joe snorts, probably at the mention of love. Yeah. Since when did a deviant lifestyle of sodomy equal love? Brent mouths ‘closet case’ to me, nodding at William, and I chuckle because he is so right. Then I realise Brent really doesn’t have the right to talk to me either.

Pete tells everyone to relax and smile, and his voice is more desperate than I’ve ever heard it. He clearly wasn’t expecting this on the first day back. In a few weeks’ time, maybe, but not yet.

“I will take care of it. You guys focus on the shows,” Pete says with surprising conviction. We all give Pete a hard time, me more than anyone, but I know the rest of the guys trust him one hundred percent.

Against my better judgement, I decide to trust him too. Maybe he can revive Brendon, who is not mutilated in an alley somewhere because this is not the time or the place to be openly gay. Brendon just missed his flight. That’s all.

Pete will take care of it.

The soundcheck is a lifeless affair where we try to remember how it all works after our break. We manage to keep it professional, deciding to introduce a few old songs to the setlist and discard a few others. Just so that we don’t die of boredom.  
  
Not all venues offer proper food, and mostly, we live off snacks like mini-sandwiches or candy and cookies. Mid-South Coliseum has a proper catering facility in the backstage area, reminiscent of my high school’s cafeteria except with only a handful of small tables. I sit by myself and stuff mashed potatoes into my mouth, absently reading the Hemingway I found on the bus. The first page has got a wide scrawl of ‘B.B.U. 1974’ in the top corner. I keep wondering what the other B stands for. Bill. Bob. Benjamin. Barry.

I can’t relax. I’m bracing myself for a, “So sorry I didn’t get here until now!” from the direction of the door but it’s not happening, and I get more restless.

I didn’t want to see him, anyway. But point is that he’s not here, and that annoys me more. Who does he think he is?

Spencer, Joe, Brent and Andy occupy one table while Pete, William and Zack sit around another. The most worrying thing is that we probably didn’t even think about where we’d go sit. We did it subconsciously, and I chose the table far away from the others. My three bandmates chose to join forces and leave me be.

I sigh and put the book down. Brendon will show up. I refuse to accept that all I have left of him is this stupid fucking book.

But then it’s late in the day, and we walk on stage to the lights and screams, and Brendon isn’t there. I haven’t had a drop to drink since the orange juice and vodka mix in the morning, and it’s horrifying to be this aware of the crowd. Joe is already screaming, “Good eeeeeeevening, Memphis!” into the microphone, making them cheer louder.

I strum a few chords, checking the sound, before walking to my own microphone, dead centre, lights on me, them all watching me. It’s like they are holding their breaths for me to address them: my followers.

I say, “The last time we played a show, Nixon was still president. We’ll dedicate this one to Ford.”

And just like that, I’ve spoken more on this leg than I did on the last one all put together. It’s my conviction that, if I pretend everything’s alright, everything really will be alright, and we’re not a doomed army marching onto a battlefield inadequately equipped.

* * *

It’s a hot day in Nashville, and we can’t stay on the bus-turned-sauna even if we’d want to. I sit on a bench at the back of the venue, which is thankfully an enclosed area. The guys are messing around with a frisbee, and behind the fence, fans are watching them play. Spencer, Brent and Joe already went over to sign the records the kids passed through the gaps, but they are still lingering around, cheering and chanting my name. They can see me, and I can see them.

A face off.

Brent jumps up to catch the frisbee, and he instantly throws it in Spencer’s direction before turning to me. “Ry, you don’t want to play?” he asks me, slightly out of breath. Sex with my girlfriend not keeping him in shape? A shame, that. When I don’t respond, he adds, “You should go sign records for those kids. Don’t be an asshole, you know?”

“Thanks for the pointer,” I note, standing up and stuffing my hands into my pockets. The kids cheer loudly, maybe thinking I’m finally going over. Sure thing I will.

I tell Pete I’ll be back in twenty, that I just need to stretch my legs. When I get to the guarded gate surrounding the venue, I flash my pass to the security guy and am faced with the kids who ran to the gate when they saw me on the move. There are seven of them, and they gush and stutter. I feel vile.

“Could you sign this?” one of the boys asks, handing me _Boneless_. We did decent music before this album, thanks.

“I’m not in the mood today. Just leave me be, alright?” I ask tiredly, turning my back on them.

“I just want you to sign it!” he calls after me desperately. “Ryan! Please? I love your music, man!”

I pretend not to hear.

They don’t follow me.

Brendon didn’t show up last night. We waited around after the show, but he never arrived. William is making excuses, and Pete is stressing out, and I’m slowly realising that he isn’t coming back. I didn’t want to see him, anyway, so that’s good. But the question is why. Did he get bored of being this version of him? Is he going to try and be something else this time, a plumber in Santa Fe, perhaps? Maybe he does this every five years, reinventing himself, and he didn’t even bother to give the friends he had made a warning.

Was it me?

Maybe he fell in love with me. I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe he is trying to punish me, but did he honestly think I’d get on my knees and declare my undying love? He’s a man I fucked out of curiosity and boredom. I could never love a man. Maybe he thinks that this will make me repent, this will mess me up further. He can keep on wishing. I won’t let the idle tantrums of some random one-night-stand get to me.

I realised something the past month, which is this: I don’t need to give a shit about anyone anymore. I am beyond that. Fame gives me status I didn’t realise I could exploit. They will let me do whatever I want: scold them, fuck them, laugh at them, and if at some point they disapprove, they roll their eyes and say, “He’s Ryan Ross.” It’s become an excuse.

All fucked up kids just need a bit of fame and a dash of good looks to make their shortcomings come across as accomplishments.

They think I’m charming. And now I can do just about anything, like screw a guy and never call. I won’t feel guilty for him.

My eyes land on a street sign that tells me I’m on Gay Street. It feels like it’s mocking me somehow. Thanks, Nashville.

I stop to light a cigarette, eyeing the street and wondering if there’s a chance to get high before my return to the venue, and then I spot him.

Right on the other side of the street in brown corduroy pants and a cream button up neatly tucked inside, a matching brown jacket unbuttoned and huge sunglasses over his eyes. He’s got a suitcase in his grip, and he’s looking up and down the street. I stare with my hand cupped to protect the flame from the wind, and I don’t flinch until the blaze starts prickling my skin.

Him.

I check the street for traffic, and deciding that they will most likely brake, I make a dash for it, crossing the street and earning angry honking from both directions. Brendon’s already walked further, but I catch up with him easily.

“Hey!” I demand loudly, but he doesn’t react. I follow two more steps in his wake before grabbing his shoulder and quickly forcing him to turn around. “I’m talking to you!” I snap, giving him a small shove backwards as I let go of him.

Brendon seems startled as he removes his oversized sunglasses. “Ryan!” He sounds relieved. He’s relieved? “God, I’ve spent twenty minutes trying to find the venue! The locals keep pulling my leg. I know I’m close by now, but –”

“It’s around the fucking corner.”

“Oh.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to tell me where he’s been. He just looks confused and his eyes – there’s something wrong with his eyes. They’re red. He hasn’t slept in a while, that’s for sure. His chin is covered with at least a week’s worth of stubble, not quite long enough to be a beard yet. He’s not smiling. He’s blank.

“Where the hell were you last night?” I snarl when he doesn’t open his mouth. My heart is beating wildly in disbelief that he’s here. And how dare he miss the start of the tour and have us all worrying? Have us going out of our minds? Didn’t he realise I’d drive myself up the wall?

“I got held up. I’m sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_? You think that’s gonna be good enough?” I snap. What if something had happened to him? God, did he even not stop to _think_?

Turns out that ‘sorry’ is good enough. William instantly jumps on Brendon when we get back to the venue, asking the questions we all must be wondering: what happened, where he was, if he’s okay. William notes Brendon doesn’t look good (He doesn’t, he looks tired and pale. His sunglasses now cover his red eyes). Brendon says the same thing: he got held up. I know my band is pissed off because it’s unprofessional, but Pete just says that at least now we don’t need to train a new guy and that there’s someone to look after Brent’s instruments.

“We’ve got enough band members vanishing without having to worry about you,” Joe snaps, and for once I agree with him, even if he took an indirect stab at me.

“We need you on stage in ten,” Pete informs the roadie, who nods in defeat. He looks like he could do with a nap, and I know I could easily tell Pete to cut him some slack, let the kid rest, but I don’t. He was late and is still employed. That’s all the special treatment he is going to get.

Brendon gets on the bus, and I resume my seat on the bench, the kids on the other side of the fence now even more numerous. I start chain-smoking, eyes focused on the bus. Brendon comes back out shortly, now in fresh clothes. He’s got his tour pass around his neck and a roll of duck tape in his grip, and he heads for the back door unseeingly, eyes nailed to the ground.

Look at me. Turn your head and _look_ at me.

He doesn’t.

* * *

White arrows have been painted onto the backstage floor, leading the way from the dressing room to the stage so that we don’t get lost. Andy has started adding a taped note onto the monitor on my left with the name of the city we’re in. I watch Brendon tear it off, crumbling ‘Nashville’ and throwing it offstage for the cleaners to deal with. The venue smells of sweat, the space where the crowd was half an hour ago now littered with cups.

All the band needs to do these days is get off the bus, hang out in the dressing room, do soundcheck, wait around, play the show, get back on the bus. We don’t need to bother with how the gear gets on stage, how the guitars stay stringed and tuned. I don’t need to watch the roadies clean up the mess when I could be getting high or banging a groupie somewhere.

I have no reason to be here, but I am.

I was right about the guilt-tripping thing. That’s what Brendon is trying to do with his lifeless zombie act, make me feel like shit because I promptly put us fucking into a safe that I then threw overboard.

“Coming through,” Zack says, rolling an amp case off stage, the tiny wheels squeaking as he pushes it along. I step aside to give him space and keep the cigarette to my lips.

William is packing away the drum kit, but he keeps watching Brendon with concern. I was worried for a while, but only out of instinct. Someone around you is upset, of course you feel upset too. Now, though, I just think it’s funny. It’s like he’s walking around with his heart hung around his neck for everyone to see, big puppy eyes with a naïve ‘how could you do this to me?’ on top. And he thinks that by ignoring me, I will feel so bad that I’ll elope with him.

Jesus Christ, could he just get over it?

Maybe I just rocked his world so hard that he can’t forget the most amazing orgasm of his life.

Andy hauls guitar case after guitar case off stage. We’re travelling with, what? Ten, twelve guitars? “Bren, I need the basses,” Andy calls out, and Brendon nods hurriedly, slightly dirty hair flopping in front of his tired eyes as he kneels down next to a bass case, placing Brent’s Fender in it carefully, stuffing the strap to the side. He pulls the lid down and clicks the several locks.

I stand up straighter when he heads over to me, a bass case in both hands. The muscles of his arms are tense, jutting veins visible under the pale, smooth skin. He glances at me as he passes, but he doesn’t say anything.

I inhale deep, ignoring the dropping sensation in my guts. Pete appears on stage from the other side, and he hurries over to me. “Ry, you go have a drink and rest. We’ve got this.”

“I’m making the kids wait,” I respond. A whole crowd of them is outside the venue gates, waiting for the band to emerge and sign something. I’m not a star if I go over without making them squirm, am I?

“We should talk about Europe soon,” he says.

“Hmm, yeah. Well, you see it’s a continent. Eurasia geographically, I think. The cradle of civilisation. We owe it all to the Romans, if you ask me.”

“I meant the European tour,” he chuckles, but I freeze. What European tour?

Pete doesn’t clarify, he just walks on with a stupid, happy smile on his face.

No. Seriously.

What European tour?

William walks by, carrying the D-shaped case of Spencer’s bass drum. “You know anything about a European tour?” I ask him urgently, but he shakes his head.

I curse and stomp my cigarette to the stage floor, now heading to the dressing room to clear this up. The arrows point the way, and the note on the door still says ‘THE FOLLOWERS’. My bandmates are no longer there, though, having migrated to the bus. I mutter curses as I pick up my brown leather jacket and pull it on, carding my hair and feeling every muscle in my body tense up. What fucking European tour?

I have managed to wrap my head around the dates we have left – twenty-three now – after which I plan to take a long, long break. We played the UK, Germany and France in ’72, a very humble tour filled with ‘what the fuck is up with this country?’ wonder as none of us had been abroad before. I have heard nothing about us going back now that we’re beyond famous. Another fifty shows? In varying countries with different languages and cultures and crowds?

No. Absolutely not.

The door to the dressing room opens, and Brendon walks in, acknowledging me silently as he goes to a couch with clothes on it and begins stuffing Brent’s leftover stage clothes into a bag. For a second, I imagine my life as Brent’s bitch, and I don’t like what I see.

“You know something about a European tour?” I shoot at him angrily.

Brendon stops what he’s doing and looks over at me. “No.”

“Liar.”

His brows furrow. “I really don’t. I got back, like, four hours ago. Trust me, I don’t know,” he sighs, a hint of sadness in it, and looks away.

“For fuck’s sake, stop moping around!” I bark. “You realise what a tour like that might mean? Two, maybe three months of more shows? I’ve got more shit to deal with than your martyrdom, so stop –”

“What?” he asks so, so quietly that I forget what I was going to say.

I don’t like it when he’s sad. When he is quiet and reserved like this, I feel anguished. He needs to stop and go back to the smiling and laughing roadie he was before.

“I said stop and get over it,” I repeat. “It was one night.”

His eyes flare up, and there’s the Brendon I know. Not this subdued hermit who has completely closed in on himself.

He stuffs more clothes into the bag hurriedly. “You know, not everything is about you. Does _that_ ever occur to you?”

Not really, no.

He flings the bag over his shoulder. “Someone close to me died, so I’m sorry if I don’t give a crap about your petty tour worries, especially when you’re just acting like a spoiled brat.”

I flinch. “What?”

Brendon’s jaw clenches tight. He shakes his head and leaves the room. I stare after him, feeling as if my insides have suddenly frozen.

I know people die. I know.


	2. Him

I overhear that Brendon spent some of his break with Audrey and Bowie. I haven’t really given consideration to what he did during that time, but I certainly didn’t imagine him in similar parties I went to. Of course David would migrate towards San Francisco. He came out as bi in an interview last year, didn’t he? I remember the uproar that caused, how it’s still not over and how righteous American parents are telling their children not to listen to his music. David’s got balls. It could have destroyed his career if he wasn’t so talented.

It’d ruin The Followers if any one of us was gay and the word got out. Suddenly, all the lyrics would no longer be just lyrics, but the listeners would look at them to find all the gay undertones, parents would forbid their kids from coming to our shows, Christians would be outside boycotting us with hate-filled slogans for corrupting America’s youth. Everything we do would be connected to that one band member liking cock.

Luckily, none of us are gay.

Considering Brendon’s sudden mingling with international rock stars, you’d think he’d be back flaunting it in my face. But he’s not. I don’t know what to do with his snappy but sad “Someone close to me died”. How do I say I’m sorry when I don’t even know who it is? And he certainly wouldn’t even tell me if I asked.

I can’t sleep, so I end up listening to the hum of the bus and staring at the ceiling. I can hear voices, so not everyone’s in bed. Zack is driving us to New Orleans, and Brendon disappeared to his bunk before we took off, so I know he is just on the other side of the door. Someone died. That’s why he was late. That’s why he was upset. Not me. Not what happened between us.

Maybe it’s an ex-boyfriend. He’s never talked about any relationships he’s had, but he must have had a few, unless it’s all casual sex. I wonder if David fucked him. I hope not. David’s wife flew over last that I heard, so he’s probably trying to play the whole husband thing right now, anyway. Maybe it was Brendon’s grandmother, but everyone expects old people to die. Brendon looked anything but at peace with it.

Just then, I hear the sound of a bunk curtain opening, followed by the soft thud of feet landing on the floor. The steps lead the other way, but I am pretty sure that was Brendon’s bunk. I haphazardly reach for the wristwatch I left on top of my pile of clothes; the bus is so damn hot that sleeping in the nude is the only way to go. I can’t see what time it is in the dark, but it must be the middle of the night. Brendon can’t sleep either.

I pull the covers off, locating jeans on the floor and pulling them on. Murmured voices and laughter are floating through my door, sounds like Spencer and Brent catching up. I hear an excited voice. Joe. My three bandmates hanging out without me. I have no desire to join them.

Instead, I card my hair and wait for the telltale increase of volume when the bunk area door is reopened and their voices are louder, followed by quiet steps all the way to my door where they stop.

I stare at the door, palms sweating.

Brendon’s not climbing into his bunk. He is standing just on the other side.

I picture him with his knuckles raised, tentatively hovering over the wooden surface of the door. My eyes dart to the side, to the innocent patch of wall that he slammed me against before getting down on his knees.

I forgot the way he makes the room feel hotter than it is. He isn’t even in the room.

This is why I didn’t want to come back on tour.

My fingers curl around the doorknob, ready to open it when he knocks. I am listening so intently that I could hear a pin drop. No one would notice him coming back here. We could be discreet. 

A sound, and I flinch, my breath hitching.

I hear a curtain drawing closed. Brendon has climbed back into his bunk.

My fingers loosen around the doorknob reluctantly.

* * *

Brendon’s not any better the next day. He looks tired and confused and sad, playing solitaire crossed-legged on the backstage floor, the cards laid out in front of him as he hunches over the game. I keep sketching him into my notebook, crude lines, crossing out different versions because he keeps moving. I’m not much of an artist, anyway.

Tours always involve a lot of waiting around. Pete does his best to keep us entertained, making sure there’s a TV somewhere for us to watch or a guitar we can play or a party we can attend (though we are not allowed to party too hard). But despite our manager’s best efforts, we still end up hanging around, waiting for soundcheck, waiting for the show. Usually, Brendon finds a guitar and plays his favourite songs. He is talented as fuck. He can listen to the radio, hear a song once, and then be able to figure it out on the guitar or the piano. I can’t do that. If Brendon’s not playing, he’s cracking jokes or drinking up with William. I’ve never seen him playing solitaire before.

I give up trying to sketch him, closing the notebook and sliding it into my back pocket. The backstage area is busy, our band socialising with Joe’s admirers who have gathered outside the dressing room. That man always manages to find a crowd. No, it’s not him finding one, it’s him actively searching for one. He needs others to feel good about himself. If he got locked in a room by himself for one hour, he’d probably go insane. Brendon isn’t taking part and neither am I.

I walk over to our roadie and flop down, sitting opposite him and crossing my legs. The concrete feels cold beneath my ass. Brendon looks up from his cards, arching an eyebrow at me.

“Let’s see if you’ve learned any poker yet,” I tell him, fucking up his game as I gather the cards and start shuffling them.

“I was winning that.”

“Sure you were,” I say with a roll of my eyes. He only sighs. Where’s the bitchy reply? The snide remark? “Stud poker?” I offer, and he shrugs indifferently. “We’ll play for cigarettes.” I’m always running low on them, anyway, and he just shrugs again. I deal the cards, and we start playing silently.

I know I should be worrying about the rumoured European tour. I think Pete’s been avoiding me all day, knowing I’m going to break his neck if I find out there is some truth in it. But right now, all I can think about is the man sitting in front of me.

I hear someone say my name, and I look over to the guys sitting on amp cases and other equipment, liquor bottles in their hands, whistling at the cute cleaner whenever she walks by. I don’t really feel like drinking.

A young woman is looking our way, her long hair hanging to her waist, and Joe places a hand on her arm and says, “Ryan’s not one for company.” He says it loud enough for me to hear. Asshole.

“I’ve heard,” the groupie says sadly, eyes lingering on me, and I look away and focus back on the game. I’ve got that reputation now: the mysterious hermit. Somehow, it makes the fans even crazier and the groupies pushier. Like they could somehow walk in and charm me, take one look at me and have me figured out. I’d like to think I have more layers than that.

Brendon still isn’t any good at poker. He owes me three packs of cigarettes when I finally say, “So who was it?” He only stares at the cards between us. “Who died?”

He scratches his forehead, eyes going between his dealt hand and the cards on the floor. “My brother. Hey, is a full house better than four of a kind?”

I stare at him silently. “No.”

He says nothing. I chew on my lower lip, and we’re still holding our cards, but I doubt he’s paying attention. He’s not even looking at his cards now, instead he’s staring into nothing. I didn’t know what to say when I had no idea who it was, and I don’t know what to say now that I do. I can’t relate. I was hoping that it had been a grandparent, for instance, or his mother, since mine up and left me. But I’ve met my half-siblings two times, and I didn’t grow up with them, so I don’t know what losing a brother feels like.

Actually, I do. But Spencer’s alive, so I don’t think Brendon could see how it relates.

“You wanna talk about it?”

He smiles crookedly. “Not really.”

“Thought you didn’t keep in touch with your family.”

Brendon wipes his nose. “I don’t. I should really stop playing before I owe you ten packs.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I tell him, getting up quickly as he stands up. He’s not looking me in the eye. “Was he sick?”

“Matt? No. I don’t – He was fixing the roof and fell. That’s what I heard. Shit luck, right?” he asks, voice too neutral to cover up the fact that he is trying hard to sound like he doesn’t care. He sounds scared shitless.

“Come on,” I offer quietly, maybe even beckoning, though I’d never admit to that.

We go to the dressing room, and I snatch the beer bottle that Andy offers me on the way. I hope it’s not too suspicious, me hanging out with Brendon like this. But it’s not me hanging out with the faggot as such. It’s more me not hanging out with them.

The dressing room is empty, though it sounds like Brent is fucking someone in the bathroom. I wonder what Jac would say to that, if she thinks Brent is faithful. Poor Jac. She’s the kind of girl all the guys will fuck, but not a single one of them refrains from screwing someone on the side. It’s like we just somehow know she has plans of leaving, and when she goes, packing her shit and heading for the door, she’s not taking a single one of us with her. I’m fine with that. I doubt Brent is.

Brendon and I sit in the dressing room quietly, on different couches. We lean over the coffee table when we pass a joint back and forth. I’m not telling him to talk about his brother’s death, but neither am I leaving him alone out here. Whatever. He can soak up some of my energy, but it’s probably not calming as we’re nearing the time of going on stage again and I feel more and more anxious.

Brendon keeps staring somewhere far away, not even reacting when Brent comes out of the bathroom with a brunette who can barely walk. A virgin. Well, not any more. Her pupils look blown. How old is she? Sixteen? And how old is Brent? Twenty-three?

“Let’s go talk to Pete,” Brent says, and she follows, trying to walk without wavering but failing, either from an intense orgasm, which is unlikely, or from having a thick cock ramming into her repeatedly. She manages a somewhat straight line for the door, and that’s the last we’ll see of her. ‘Talking to Pete’ is universal code for ‘Pete, I’m done with this one, get her out of here’. Pete always does. He’s not that bad at what he does, really.

The rest of the band joins us in the dressing room once the support band gets on stage. The freeloaders pour in too, and Brent has already moved onto the next girl. I used to do the same thing, but the novelty wore off three years ago.

Pete is giving us a pep talk on how we’ll be fine and how much we’ll rock. Brendon has closed in on himself, knees raised in front of him on the couch. He looks so damn tiny.

“This touring isn’t too bad, is it?” Pete asks tentatively. “You’re meant for this. I think we could even tour some more this year.” Maybe he thinks he’s being smooth, but he’s not. At all.

Joe and Brent are nodding thoughtfully, Spencer looks pondering, and I sit up straighter. “Is this about the European tour?”

Joe’s eyes widen. “We’re going to Europe? Far out! When we leaving?”

“Rock on!” Brent says enthusiastically, lifting his beer bottle. The groupies, fans and roadies cheer, clapping enthusiastically. The instant buzz is there, in them and not in me. A girl, who is wearing flower-embroidered bell jeans with a pink bikini top, hugs Joe, her long blond hair sweeping her bare back. I think she’s Joe’s regular fuck in this town.

“I’ve missed London!” Joe says with a bright grin, and that’s it. That’s enough.

I stand up and bark, “We’re not going to fucking Europe!”

Everyone quiets down instantly, wide eyes landing on me. The excited buzz fades. We had a plan: spend the summer on the road, take the rest of the year off.

Pete clears his throat. “Everyone out except for the band!” He claps his hands. “Go on!”

I watch Brendon get up from the couch, his soulful, brown eyes locking with mine for a second before he looks away, shoulders slumped as he heads for the door.

Once everyone but the five of us are gone, the door closing behind Zack, Pete motions us to sit down. Brent sits next to me, Joe and Spencer on the couch opposite. Pete keeps his hands on his hips. He is wearing enormous sunglasses with brown lenses, and we’re indoors, for god’s sake. I know he is trying to put a wall between himself and my anger.

“Europe. Thoughts? Concerns? Let’s talk,” Pete says with a confidence inducing smile. He believes that everything can be solved with words.

“I dunno, man...” Spencer begins uncertainly after a long silence. He’s got his newborn daughter, of course, but he is not objecting as fiercely as I expected him to. Joe’s shoulders are tense and he is glaring at me angrily.

“Listen,” Pete says, holding his hands in front of his chest in a calming gesture. What follows is a long speech he undoubtedly had prepared, one in which he tells us just how much money we could make there. The money. Since when has it been about that? Pete promises us luxury treatment, screaming fans, French groupies, prestige, glory, and it’s _Europe_. Goodbye, U-fucking-S, we’re going across the pond.

We’ve been there before, and I didn’t get what the fuss was about.

“I’ve been talking with the label, and we’ve been thinking about this. A two-month tour, kicking off in October right up to December. You’d be back for Christmas. Fifty shows or so, the schedule a bit tighter than this one. Think of the experience. And, also, we’ve been thinking about recording some of the shows and putting out a live record. Huh? Sounds good, right? The Followers in Concert! The kids would eat it right up!”

There it is: my fears materialised. The label wants us to conquer Europe.

“No,” I hiss, shaking my head.

“Ry, listen to me! It’d –”

“NO!” I bark loudly, glaring at my bandmates and manager. “This is not in the contract!”

Pete’s smile falters slightly. “No. It’s not.”

“Then I’m not fucking doing it,” I state simply, shrugging. Brent shoots me a glare. Oh, he wants to go to Europe, does he? Does he think that’ll impress Jac? She was in Paris this summer. She has seen the world herself. Brent has to do a lot more than tour Europe to impress her. He would have to be me, for one thing.

“This band is not a dictatorship,” Joe snaps, “and I want to go to Europe.”

“Me too,” Brent declares.

I stare at them in astonishment. _I’m_ the frontman, _I’m_ the lyricist, _I’m_ the vocalist. The article last month talked about ‘Ryan Ross and The Followers’, causing Joe to throw a bitchfest, but they had a point. If I’m not going to Europe, then no one is going to Europe.

Spencer looks thoughtful, eyes cast downwards. “The experience might do us good,” he mutters.

“What?” I spit. Spencer wants to go to Europe too? What about Haley and Suzie?

For the first time since Memphis, I realise that Spencer looks a bit off. It’s not as obvious as it is with Brendon, who looks like he has been dragged through hell with his dead eyes and pale appearance. Spencer looks like he did before: his beard slightly longer, but his hair a bit shorter. Haley always used to cut his hair and clearly still does. But when I walked in on the Smiths in Cincinnati, Spencer was so goddamn proud. He looked happy in a way I had never seen him, when he finally had something I or this band could never offer.

I’ve known Spencer long enough to catch the way his fingers now curl around the drumsticks in his left hand: uncertainly and too firmly, not with the easy confidence he has. But if he wants to go to Europe, it’s not the band he’s unsure about. I know when I’ve seen the same nervous grip.

He’s fought with Haley.

“You can’t tour without me,” I point out, hoping the fight was bad, that Haley is filing for divorce, that maybe Suzie isn’t Spencer’s but the mailman’s. She had Spencer’s nose, though, and I wonder what losing that little girl would do to Spencer. I don’t want that either.

“Are you suggesting the rest of us are replaceable?” Brent asks, the displeasure clear in his tone. I stop looking at Spencer and find my bassist’s angry eyes pouring into me.

“Of course he isn’t!” Pete intervenes. “You’re all just as valuable, the four of you. The Followers needs you all.”

“If someone here is replaceable, it’s Ryan,” Joe now says, and my eyebrows quite easily lift to my hairline. “We all know he’s the least popular member.”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

Joe shrugs easily, but he looks pleased. “When it comes to the fans, you are definitely the least popular.”

That is so not true. They adore me. They scream my name in the front row, wait outside hotels for me, knock on my hotel door in the middle of the night, offer me beers and joints and sex. Anything for five minutes or a lock of my hair. I scoff loudly to make sure everyone present knows that Joe’s claims are ridiculous.

“They love me,” I state matter-of-factly. During our break in LA, I noticed just how much they love me. Then I start thinking of the show last night. The kids kept screaming Joe, didn’t they? I noticed that because it caught me by surprise.

“Ever since we started this tour, your reputation has been on a downward spiral,” Joe notes. “They talk, you know. The fans. Call radio stations to discuss the Followers shows, not to mention now that we’ve got a handful of kids following us from town to town, our actions have consequences. And they used to say you were reserved, but now they all flat out know you’re rude and arrogant. Fans don’t like that, no matter how genius Rolling Stone says you are. Kids want someone to idolise, someone who embraces them. Not someone who disowns them.”

“And I guess you embrace them, huh?” I ask irately, and Joe nods. It’s not a competition for popularity and money. “Music isn’t about those things,” I argue, but their faces are priceless, like I’ve said that I believe in world peace or that the communist threat has been exaggerated.

Joe states, “They might let you do what you want because you’re suddenly as famous as some of the big old names, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know you’re a shitty human being.”

“Joe, that’s more than enough,” Pete says firmly. The blow is too low for me to even respond to. I just lean back into the couch, having nothing to say. If Joe wants to take the one thing I’ve ever loved – music – and make it void, rob it of its importance to me, then he has reached a new level of assholeness, and I won’t let myself sink as low as to retaliate.

An ominous silence lands on us, broken only when I say, “I need to take a leak.”

They don’t try to stop me as I go to the bathroom where Brent fucked a virgin not that long ago. Pete looks guilty, and even Spencer lets me walk away just like that.

We were waiting for an explosion. Usually, Joe snaps something, I fight back, Brent offers a mediocre comment that demonstrates his infinite stupidity while Spencer pacifies and Pete tries to declare truce. But this one didn’t go that way.

Once inside the bathroom, I flip down the toilet seat lid and sit down, burying my face in my hands and closing my eyes. The audience cheers back in the hall. The support band must have just finished a kick ass song, and I can hear the commotion through the concrete walls. It’s like a tidal wave, from the crowd’s open mouths and air-filled lungs, soaring out and onwards, pouring onto the stage and running backstage along the corridors, leaking under doors and roaring in my ears. My hands shake as I fiddle with a lighter, a half-empty cigarette pack now resting on my knee.

Is this it? I refuse to go to Europe and we break up? Or will they throw me out? Could they do that? Popularity... It won’t be the same music without me. I am the main songwriter, so they couldn’t... Would Spencer even back me up?

I hear my band talking on the other side of the door, but it’s not argumentative or sympathetic; it’s just murmurs I can’t make out. The support band kicks into a new song loudly, causing me to almost miss the sharp knock on the bathroom door. Spencer. Is he planning to be that supportive, sane part of me? He hasn’t tried stepping up to that role yet.

I inhale the cigarette and sigh, breathing out and watching the smoke swirl. I locked the door out of habit, and as I stand up, I study my worn out reflection in the bathroom mirror. My long fingers tremble around the cigarette, and I focus on it until my hand stops shaking. I brush brown locks behind my ear with my free hand. The counter is littered with makeup and hair products, none of which I’ve used. Most are Joe’s.

I lean against the wall close to the door, reaching out to turn the lock like it’s a particularly hard task. My wrist feels powerless. I hear the soft ‘click’ and it opens automatically, inching forward slightly. I bring the cigarette to my lips, having prepared a dozen snarky comebacks for Spencer, like ‘So how’s the married life going?’ or ‘A few states isn’t far enough from your wife, is it?’, but instead Brendon walks in, closing the door behind himself and locking it again.

“What?” I ask the roadie.

He sighs dramatically but keeps his eyes nailed to his shoes. “I’m here to talk to you.”

“About?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Pete said that I should come talk to you, said he thinks I’ve got a calming effect on you.” He finally looks up, his bottom lip uncertainly between his teeth. “Do I?”

I don’t know if he wants me to say he does. “Do you?” I ask quietly.

“I don’t think I know you well enough to say.”

He leans against the counter. There is something soothing in his posture, so maybe Pete is right.

I finish the cigarette with one, final drag, dropping it onto the floor and stomping on it. Brendon looks like I shouldn’t litter the bathroom floor. I ask, “Would you want to? Know me well enough, I mean.”

Brendon smiles crookedly. “I’m not sure.”

I wasn’t offering, anyway.

Pete probably wanted him to come in and tell me why a European tour sounds like a great idea, or talk me into not quitting or at least going on stage. Start out with something small. Brendon’s not doing it, though. He pushes himself up to sit on the counter, feet dangling off the floor. He’s clearly content on us not speaking, but when it comes to him, I can’t hold my peace.

“It’s just bullshit,” I blurt out angrily. “All of this is fucking bullshit. I need a break, not another tour.”

“I’ve never been outside the country. Well, except for Canada now. But I think it’d be nice, going to Europe.”

“It’s not like you get to actually see any of the countries. It’s just hotel rooms and venues except that you can’t understand what anyone says and the fans are crazier and creepier and the drugs are stronger.”

“I’d love to have a job that enabled me to travel.”

“It’s not a job. It’s a way of life. _They_ think it’s a job, but I know it’s more than that.”

He casts me a long look. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

He’s probably right.

He leans against the wall by his side, his neck longer as he tilts his head, dark brown hair shifting in front of his eyes. We keep up the eye contact, and I feel the bathroom shrinking. “I don’t want to be on this tour either,” he whispers. It shouldn’t surprise me, but somehow, it does. We all assume that getting chosen to be our roadie must be the best thing that’s ever happened to Brendon. “I just want to go home.”

“Where’s home?” I ask quietly.

“No idea. I just...” he begins and breathes in deep. He closes his eyes, a frown on his face. He licks his lips. He probably doesn’t mean to, or at least he’s not aware of it, but my eyes lock on the pink tongue swiping over his lower lip before it disappears. I shift restlessly. God, he’s distracting. “Life feels insignificant. People drop like flies. You spend- You spend your entire life trying to be something, and then you just die. For no good reason.” His head droops as he adds, “I just want to stop thinking about it.”

“Your late brother?”

He nods tiredly, his lips twitching downwards in the corners. “Life, family, this tour... But I’m stuck here. I just need to deal with that.”

“I’m stuck here too. I could –” I begin, rushing it out too fast like I’m nervous. I stop myself quickly, but he still looks up, a wondering look in his eyes. “I could help you take your mind off of those things.” I’m not sure if he knows I’m quoting him at first, but he must know as his face flashes with a darker look. I step towards him, my eyes darting to the lock to make sure no one can barge in. “Would you like that?”

He sits up straighter on the counter. I can see myself reflected in the mirror behind him. I’m surprised by how predatory I look.

“That’s not a good idea,” he says, but his voice is lower than it was a second ago. Good. If he can’t get me out of his head either, then...

I step closer, my hands resting on his knees. He’s got skinny knees; I can feel the bones through the fabric and skin. God, I’ve waited all this time just to touch him.

Having sex with him once makes it impossible not to see him in that light. Even when he’s playing guitar, drinking beer, hauling gear back onto the bus, he’s not just Brendon. He’s the Brendon I fucked. I know what he sounds like when he comes, a helpless groan deep from his chest, pupils widening. I know. And having done it once, I just want to do it again, see how much more helpless I could make him sound, how hard I could make him come.

“Why isn’t it a good idea?”

Brendon smiles. “Because you’re trouble, Ryan Ross.”

Me? Trouble? Hell, I could’ve told him that. His right hand lands on mine on his knee, calloused fingertips brushing my knuckles and closing around my wrist. “And what if...?” he begins but trails off, sounding younger than he is.

“I’m just offering a distraction. For us both.”

My eyes are locked on his mouth, his full and pink bottom lip. My stomach burns, my breaths deeper and faster.

“Fuck,” he whispers in disbelief, but I don’t know what he can’t wrap his mind around: my actions or the lust that I can hear in his tone.

I pull his knees apart without waiting for an invite. He leans forward to capture my lips as I step between his legs, my hands moving to his hips as I pull him closer.

Twenty-four hours. I managed to resist him for a day. Really, I should congratulate myself for showing such restraint.

Brendon’s mouth opens up for me, pliant and unfamiliar. I don’t recognise his taste, maybe because I told myself to forget. The stubble on his chin is long, slightly irritating against the skin around my mouth, but I kiss him harder. I can hear the music being played on stage, muddled and muted, and I hear the crew and the band talking behind the door. Brendon sighs against my lips, not nearly as aggressive as I am being. I take bites at his mouth desperately, pulling on his bottom lip until he groans. 

My hands are restless on him, his clothes in the way when I want to touch him. His legs wrap around me hurriedly, his crotch pressed to me. The last time, his kissing was as rough as mine. Now it isn’t. His hands run up my arms and to my neck, one cupping the back of my head and bringing me closer. The kisses are just as deep and urgent, but not aggressive. They settle hard in my guts, making my skin burn.

The kiss breaks when Brendon shifts, legs wrapping around me tighter, pulling me in. “You gonna ignore me afterwards?” he asks against my lips, voice a rough whisper. I don’t think he knows how erotic his voice is like that. “Ashamed you fucked a guy again?” He looks at me with wondering eyes.

My hand moves between us, stopping on his thigh for a hesitating second before going up to cup his cock. The outline of his erection burns hot against my hand, trapped between his jeans and thigh.

“I can do whatever I want,” I tell him. As long as no one knows. The back of my neck feels heated. He noticed the shame, did he? But my lust for him, the desire and the burn, isn’t going anywhere, even if I could barely look at my reflection the morning after in Florida, thinking ‘You had sex with another man and liked it. You’re disgusting’. But I didn’t feel disgusted, and that was why my reflection was taunting me. My peace with the act. Still, there is nothing peaceful about Brendon: whenever he walks into the room, a war is declared inside me.

It’s not the sex that’s the problem.

I keep palming him through his jeans, mind racing as I think of what girls have done for me, what I’ve liked. His breathing is shaky, his cheeks rosy. I trace the outline of his cock, thumb pressing the underside, index finger pressing the top. Fuck, I can’t stop now.

“Ry,” he says breathily, one hand on the side of my face. We kiss hungrily, and I feel his cock twitch beneath my hand.

“Come on,” I rush out, having absolutely no patience. I step back and pull him with me. He slides off the counter, feet finding the floor. I fist his hair to bring us together, our lips crashing.

“Around,” I tell him from the midst of feverish kisses. My hands unbuckle his belt, quickly moving to unzip him and pull his jeans down. He turns around, and I try not to groan. God, I want him. I look over his shoulder and into the mirror where a guy who looks like me is standing behind him in a compromising position. I press my crotch to his ass, trying not to shiver from lust.

My eyes focus on the large bulge of Brendon’s blue briefs. In the mirror, I see my hand sliding to rest on his lower stomach, on the stripe of skin exposed, fingers flexing and wanting to move down to cup him. I stop watching. I flush myself against him, my nose pressed to the side of his neck, body thrumming. Brendon jerks and pushes against me, a needy sigh escaping his lips. He must feel how hard I am. I suck on his neck, inhaling his scent. Want, want, want...

Brendon lets out a guttural groan as my fingers press into the soft skin of his stomach. I’m itching to move my hand down to cup him, to feel him hot and hard beneath my hand, rub him, touch his cock and hear him moan. I don’t, though.

I take a step back and yank his briefs over his ass. My stomach drops, my insides dripping with heat. Brendon instantly leans forward, offering himself to me as he spreads his legs the little he can, his palms pressed against the counter. He is breathing hard, anticipating. I watch the curve of his back, the way I can almost see muscles shifting beneath his red t-shirt. My eyes dart downwards, focusing on his pale behind that is now revealed.

I always thought that I was mostly a tits kind of guy, but god. He has got the most perfect ass: full, firm and smooth.

My hands fly to my zipper faster than I can acknowledge. Need to get my cock out, need to be inside him. Now.

Brendon groans at the back of his throat as I take a hold of his hips and roughly pull him to me, my achingly hard cock now trapped between us and pressed against him. My pants are down to mid-thigh and out of the way.

My eyes land on the mirror again, and I can see his hard cock, flushed and curved upwards in front of him. He leans against my chest, his head dropping onto my shoulder. The view in the mirror is mesmerising – Brendon in my arms with his jeans pulled down, his chest rising and falling rapidly, me looming over his shoulder with a dark gaze in my eyes, my starving hands on him. This one man on display just for me.

I thrust against his ass for friction, and he cranes his neck to kiss me as I meet him halfway. It’s a dirty kiss. It’s a dirty situation. I hear Joe’s laughter echo through the door, but it’s the panting, the small gasps and the wet smacks that ring louder in my ears. We’re rushing it again. Brendon wants to not think about his problems? Fine. I will provide that with the best ten-minute fuck he’s ever gotten. Before they get suspicious. Before they come breathing down my neck, telling me to justify this one, justify Brendon. I can’t.

I break the kiss, my hands on his ass and massaging. I cup him, the soft flesh perfect to the touch. My cock is pressed between us, the pink head pointing upwards, a clear drop of pre-come at the tip. Brendon shudders against me.

“You want me?” I whisper into his ear, my voice deeper than I expected.

I move one hand to the base of my cock and rub myself against him, running the swollen head along his crack teasingly. Brendon’s head remains on my shoulder, and he licks his lips, eyes closed. “Y-Yes,” he chokes out. “Please.”

I wasn’t expecting him to admit it, but fuck, it makes me even harder he does.

I snatch his earlobe between my teeth, sucking on it briefly. “Lean forward.”

Brendon obeys, leaning over the counter slightly. I spread his cheeks, my brain humming. The air is thick with want. I have never felt so fucking urgent with anyone before.

“Use this,” he says hurriedly, turning back and offering a bottle of hand lotion. Lemon scented. It’s Joe’s, something about keeping his hands soft for the chicks and for his own masturbation sessions. I take the bottle quickly, frustrated. Chicks lubricate themselves. Couldn’t Brendon just grit his teeth and take me?

When two of my lotion-covered fingers slip past Brendon’s tight ring of muscle, I forget to be frustrated. He moans, trying to keep quiet, his muscles squeezing around my fingers. He is just as tight as I remembered.

My aching cock is steadily poking his ass cheek as my fingers work him open. His brows are furrowed as his breathing gets shallower. I poured too much lotion and it’s too slick and messy, my palm and fingers and his hole smeared with it, but _god_. He pushes against my hand needily, my fingers slipping in deeper. I keep twisting my fingers to get a reaction.

The mirror reflects us, the way he is bending forwards, bracing himself as he gets fingered. I study him, the way his fingers claw the counter. “You fucked anyone during the break?”

“Yeah,” he groans, not even needing to pause. Fuck. He licks his lips, eyes closed.

“How many?”

“Just the one.”

I pull my fingers out. I barely stretched him but I don’t care. “How was he?” I ask, my mind flashing with images of Brendon getting fucked, him coming and groaning and shaking. Jesus.

I align my cock with his hole, spreading his cheeks clumsily with one hand. My cock brushes over his wet entrance, teasing. Brendon pushes back in vain.

“He was alright,” he manages breathily. “He – Oh. Oh, god.” I’ve pushed the tip of my cock into him. He freezes up, anticipating the rest. It’s killing me, how tight he is around me, how I want to ram in the whole way and thrust and fuck until we come. My palms are sweating as I grip his hips, my forehead pressing to the nape of his neck as I lean forward to be closer to him. My thighs are pressed to the backs of his legs, but I am only one inch inside him. I am barely keeping it together.

“Tell me more.”

“Please –”

“Tell me,” I order, biting onto his neck where there already is a fresh bruise.

“In San Francisco. A club corner. Everyone fucks in the corners, so - This tall guy, muscles and tattoos. He fucked me against the wall.”

I slide in further, making us both moan. Sweat rolls down my neck, my mind flashing as I picture Brendon’s moans getting lost in the bad music played in the gay club, the way Brendon pushed back to get more cock, like he is doing now. I’d love to see him get fucked.

I make sure to look at us in the mirror to capture the moment I push in all the way. I have no restraint left. Brendon muffles a groan, his expression one of bliss. He stands up straighter, and my chest presses to his back. My hips begin to move, smacks of skin on skin as I fuck him with hard, unrefined thrusts. His head turns to the side, eyes focusing on my face, his pupils blown and burning. My guts drop. He feels divine.

I focus on staring at the mirror image. That’s me. Fucking a man.

My hair is dishevelled, brown locks out of place and one glued to my forehead. My mouth is hanging open as I try to get enough oxygen in. Brendon’s got one hand on the counter and the other around his leaking cock. He is stroking himself to my thrusts. God, he looks so hot, and my insides burn seeing myself do this to him. Brendon kisses me desperately, catching my lips at an awkward angle, but I don’t close my eyes as I kiss him back. I watch us kiss.

That’s me fucking him.

I love watching myself do something I shouldn’t.

Brendon breaks off the kiss when I thrust in deep. “God, I feel so full,” he pants helplessly.

“Look,” I order, and he seems to become aware of the mirror for the first time. His blown pupils get even more blown when he sees us.

My hips snap forward, the only part of me moving with erratic thrusts. My upper body remains still and glued to Brendon, my toes curling in my shoes and my fingers digging into his hips. Brendon leans to me further, giving me a better view of him touching himself. He’s far gone right now. His other hand reaches behind me and lands on my ass, and he draws me in deeper. “More.”

It gets frantic from there. I won’t let myself come until he gets off. My cock pushes into him, and he’s wet, smooth and so tight. Pleasure, bliss and ecstasy radiate from all sides. I keep kissing his neck, his ear, anywhere, his lips when he turns his head before facing forward again. He watches me fuck him, and I watch myself fucking him.

When I finally let myself grunt, low and dirty in his ear, he moans, “God, _there_ you are.” Like he was waiting for me to give in to the overwhelming pleasure. He shifts his hips slightly and his breathing hitches, his barely hushed moans that much more desperate. “Watch me,” he pleads as I remember that there are angles and spots, and now it seems to be just right.

My eyes snap to the mirror, and I fuck him even harder. My hands pull on him hungrily, his skin, my tongue tracing his earlobe. Brendon is beginning to shake, and I lift one hand to his mouth, placing my palm firmly over his swollen lips. His eyes widen and he orgasms, fisting his cock. His muscles spasm as white come shoots out from the head. I keep watching. He squeezes damn tight around my cock buried deep inside him. His eyes never leave mine, even as his face flashes with pleasure, his mouth dropping open beneath my hand and a dirty moan escaping, coming deep from his chest. It vibrates against me.

I can let go now.

With that thought, I bury myself as deep as I can go, my orgasm hitting me before my hips come to a proper stop. I keep fucking his ass through it, small thrusts to get friction, to feel him better as I climax. I pant against his neck where sweat is rolling down. I didn’t watch myself come, but I know he did.

I pull out of him the second I know I can without moaning. My cock feels spent, glistening with lotion and probably my come. I let go of his hips and unglue myself off of him. His t-shirt has sweat marks on it, his ass is red, his legs still slightly parted. If I parted his cheeks, I could probably watch my semen decorating his stretched hole. That thought should not turn me on like it does.

I stop staring when his blue briefs move to cover his ass again. He turns around, zipping himself up with shaking hands, neck flushed a deep red. “Dammit,” he curses when his hands shake too much. The bathroom stinks of sex.

I feel restless, looking around and waiting for the setback as I try to get my dick back in my pants. An earthquake? A car crash? I mean, something _must_ happen. Last time I fucked him, I saw someone die. If there is a god, then that must have been a sign that some deity out there knows what I did and goddamn disapproved of it. It was punishment. Then again, I watched that chick blow her brains out, so I don’t think it can get much worse. I can’t stop myself from wanting him.

Brendon’s mouth is swollen and red, lips still slick with our spits. “Mahalo,” he manages when he’s properly dressed. I’ve zipped myself up and only stare back, somehow angered by him thanking me in some stupid language, by him thanking me full stop. He gets a dark look in his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing. And you too, thanks.”

Brendon quickly looks away. “One minute you want to, the next you don’t,” he mutters quietly as he now busies himself with wiping the counter with toilet paper.

“I want to. When we’re on this tour, we could... We could fuck.”

If Brendon is going to be on that tour bus, I want to be fucking him.

“Casual sex?” he clarifies, now rolling the toilet paper into a ball, having cleaned his come off the counter.

“If you want to label it.” I focus on not thinking about what I’m saying or offering. I can scorn myself later. “But no one can know I’m fucking you. That goes without saying.”

Brendon flushes the paper down. He stares into the bowl, making me nervous. I just had my cock up his ass, and I feel nervous. There is something sardonic about that.

“Okay,” he shrugs just as the audience bursts into applause, signalling the end of the support band’s set. The roar is louder than I thought, making me realise that covering Brendon’s mouth might not have been enough. I glance at the door sceptically. “I’m needed on stage,” Brendon says hurriedly. Of course.

He seems closed up as he moves to get past me. I place a hand on his hip, stopping him. “If we’re gonna be fucking,” I tell him, my voice rough.

I kiss him in a way that is not graceful or polite. My tongue pushes into his mouth forcefully, brushing over his. He exhales and responds wantonly. It’s the kind of kiss only two people who are screwing each other can share, one that shows it’s just the tip of the iceberg. I love the way he tastes. When I break the kiss, I give him a smug grin. “Am I distracting you yet?”

“Immensely,” he whispers, eyes nailed to my lips. I’ve got him hypnotised, and I purposefully lick my lower lip. A shuddery breath washes over my mouth as he leans back in for more, but I step back quickly. He seems to snap out of it with a slightly bewildered look.

“You should shave,” I tell him.

“So you can pretend you’re kissing a girl?” he asks but his voice lacks the usual poison. He sounds almost playful, and the wall he put up is gone.

“Because your stubble is irritating the shit out of my skin.” And there is _nothing_ in the way he kisses that could make me think he’s a girl.

Brendon grins. “Yeah, your mouth looks a bit red.”

I turn around in surprise to check myself in the mirror. I see his smirk over my shoulder as he unlocks the door and walks out with a lot more grace than Brent’s coked up virgin. My mouth _is_ red, maybe even a beard burn on my chin, and fuck. We are so obvious. Fuck.

I hear Pete immediately tell Brendon to get on stage. Does the bathroom stink of sex? If someone walks in now, will they smell what we did? I wash my hands and furiously flatten my hair, quickly wiping my mouth before I re-enter the dressing room. My bandmates are idly sitting on different chairs, Brent playing one of my guitars and Joe biting his fingernails. Spencer looks up from a magazine he’s reading, and I hold my breath, but then he just looks back down. The roadies are gone.

Pete rushes over to me. “Ryan! Did Brendon talk to you?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

And I fucked him like the only thing that mattered in the universe was getting off.

“I don’t want to talk about Europe right now,” I say, still on edge, still waiting for someone to notice what has to be obvious.

“But later, yeah?” Pete asks hopefully, and I nod. Sure. Whatever. “Groovy,” he smiles, hand landing on my shoulder and squeezing.

A venue worker comes in to tell Pete there’s someone there to see him, and Pete hurries off. I gingerly take a seat on an empty couch. My bandmates pay no attention. I can smell Brendon on me.

Didn’t they hear? Didn’t someone say “Oh, those two are taking long in the bathroom?”, followed by a groan as I pushed into another man, burning with lust? Clearly not. Clearly, no one noticed anything.

There is no punishment this time around. Leaning back into the couch, I fight off a smile. Holy shit. I can get away with this too.

The crowd is now chanting for us, but I don’t feel stressed. My body is relaxed, my mind at peace, mostly still clouded by the thought of Brendon. I can get on stage just fine.

“Um, guys?” Pete asks from the doorway. We all look at him, and he rolls his eyes. “There was this stupid radio competition, and the winner got to meet you guys, so he’s here. I forgot, sorry, but I’ll invite him in, we’ll sit him down, sign his shit and kick him out in five minutes, alright?”

Brent scoffs. “Sure.” Pete knows we all hate this kind of forced nicety.

“Okay, come on in!” Pete calls over his shoulder, and a skinny teenager with millions of freckles spread across his face walks in. He’s wearing a Followers t-shirt and is clutching onto our discography, holding it to his chest: the self-titled debut album, _Her House_ and _Boneless_. His eyes widen comically at the sight of us, mouth dropping open and a long ‘eeeeeerrrr’ coming out.

Joe and Brent exchange unimpressed glances. The kid gives me an awed and frightened look. He must be around fifteen.

Popularity.

I stand up and address him. “Hey! Come on in, sit down! You want a beer? You seem to dig our music, that’s cool.”

I’m not sure who looks the most shocked: my bandmates, our manager or the kid.

The fan recovers the quickest, nearly stumbling over his feet as he heads over, eyes shining with astonishment and gratitude. Somehow, his reaction makes me feel a tiny bit better about myself. I can wrap this kid around my finger in five minutes if I want to.

If it’s a popularity competition Joe wants, then he can bet his sweet fucking ass that I will win. After all, I just realised that I can do just about anything.


	3. One Ounce of Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links for this chapter: [Abbey Road](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abbey_Road), [Iain Macmillan](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iain_Macmillan) and _Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show_ on [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brother_Love%27s_Travelling_Salvation_Show) and [YouTube](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCgeWUKcumA).

“Say one good thing about Texas. Go on, I dare you.” I lift an eyebrow at Brendon, who tucks hair behind his ear and smiles at me.

The makeup artist covers up an irritated sigh as I move against her will. “If you could just stay still for a while longer,” she begs, and I turn to the mirror reluctantly. Brent and Spencer are ready, but Joe is still getting his hair done in the chair next to mine. The girl goes back to applying foundation on my face.

“Cowboys are hot,” Brendon offers, causing me to snort and my makeup artist’s eyebrow twitch. In the mirror, Brent makes gagging gestures behind our backs. Brendon doesn’t notice as his eyes are fixed on me. I shift uncomfortably.

The photo shoot for new promotional pictures is taking place in downtown Dallas on top of a roof. For some reason, a roof says rock ‘n roll. Brendon didn’t lose a bet this time; I asked him to come along. He probably would have come without me having to ask.

“No eyeliner,” I tell the makeup artist fiercely when she picks up a pen.

“But it’d really make your eyes pop!”

“I think it’d suit you,” Brendon agrees.

I glare at the two. “No eyeliner.”

Both Brendon and the girl look disappointed.

When we get on the roof, the wind instantly ruins any attempts made on our hair. A girl calls us back inside and sprays more hairspray on us, like that could make a difference. The photographer is some Scottish guy who appears to be famous. Pete is excited, and he usually knows who is who in these circles, and he murmurs to my ear that it’s Iain Macmillan. When I keep staring, he says, “Abbey Road cover! Family friends with John and Yoko! _John and Yoko_ , Ryan!”

“I’ve met John. I didn’t like him.”

Joe hears us speaking and joins in with, “I’d call him a right tosser!” His English accent is more than lacking. “If you asked me, someone should put a bullet or two in that guy.”

Pete stares at us in shock. “He is going to live forever! And don’t you dare say anything this radical in your interview this afternoon!”

Joe and I shrug simultaneously. John _was_ an arrogant fucker, but then again, he probably is rich and famous enough to behave like one. Pete, who famously passed out at a Beatles concert back in ’65 from screaming too much, walks away from us angrily.

“Wanker,” Joe remarks, still with a weird accent that makes him sound more Mexican than English. I still manage to chuckle. At least Joe’s not fucking my girl or lying to my face. He’s got honest arrogance, and that’s something. He still has his moments.

The four of us stand in a group, waiting for Iain and his assistants to get ready. Pete and Brendon are standing by the door leading to the roof, Brendon nodding as Pete points at us, clearly sharing his vision of what the pictures should look like.

“Why’s the fag here?” Joe asks from beside me, trying to light a cigarette, but the wind keeps blowing out the flame of the lighter. Miraculously, Joe has lost his moment.

“Do you have to call him that?” Spencer asks tiredly. He has always been the open-minded one among us. I bet I’d win that competition now.

“I invited him,” I inform the rest, looking each of them in the eye, daring them to say something. It doesn’t take a scientist to notice that the only person I have been spending time with recently has been Brendon.

Joe mouths “oh” and curses as the wind blows out the flame again.

Brent hasn’t been paying attention as he says, “This one will be it. The Picture.”

Brent has always talked about an imaginary, legendary picture of the band, that one shot that will keep the spirit of us alive long after we’re gone, guaranteeing immortality.

“If so, I wish I could at least be wearing my own clothes,” I mutter. The clothes were waiting for us when we arrived, representing someone’s horrible vision of what incorporates our music. We’re all wearing flared black jeans that come up to our belly buttons with big buckled belts, white platform shoes visible at the bottom, adding two inches to my height. Our shirts are snugly fit button-downs with two breast pockets, all different colours, giving us at least a bit of individuality. Joe is keeping his shirt undone, the fabric flapping in the wind, his ribcage shining through the skin when he stretches. Girls will masturbate to this picture taken of him.

The necklace Jac gave me is around my neck. Brent’s words bore into me: The Picture. If this is our legacy, do I want to see it in thirty years’ time and see her lie on me? Iain is now telling us where to stand and how to face the camera, automatically placing me in front of the others. I hurriedly remove the necklace, trying to stuff it into a pocket.

“You want me to take it?” Brendon calls out, and I look up to see him staring at me questioningly. He jogs over as I nod, and I pass him the piece. I feel strangely naked without it. Brendon somehow reads my thoughts as he says, “Here.”

I look at his extended hand where he has a simple, thin silver chain. I’ve seen it around his neck a few times but have never paid attention to it. “Thanks.”

The chain feels warm against my skin when I put it on.

Brendon is back behind the set with Pete, and Iain says, “Alright, lads!”

It’s clear that Iain has not heard Joe’s undisputed fact of him being the most popular member now as he places me in front of my bandmates. Halfway through us shuffling, changing positions, lifting our chins and keeping our eyes open, Iain says, “Spencer! Your smile is stunning! You should all smile!”

I instantly turn to Brent, who clearly shares my opinion on smiling not being very rock ‘n roll.

“Um, I don’t smile. I just look cool,” Joe explains, hands on his hips.

“Indulge me,” Iain says impatiently, with the snappiness of an artist that I’m more than familiar with.

We try to smile, but Iain gets frustrated and Spencer’s genuine smile turns into a stressed, artificial one. When Iain pauses to change film, we take a break, the guys rolling their eyes at each other. It’s a few fucking pictures here and there. I don’t care how it turns out.

“Stay where you are,” Iain requests hurriedly.

The guys stand behind me, waiting, and my eyes find Brendon, who looks as bored as I feel. No one is paying attention to us: the guys are bickering and Pete is trying to chat up one of Iain’s assistants, and I let myself stare at Brendon from across the roof. He looks bored as he puts his fingers onto his temple, pulling an imaginary trigger. I break into a grin. He looks around quickly before mouthing ‘bus’, pointing at himself, then at me, and lifting a rather seductive eyebrow.

Now that I think about it, Brendon is actually a bit of a dork.

I grin even wider, unable to take my eyes off of him.

Flash.

I blink rapidly, staring at Iain in surprise. He lowers the camera and hums. “That was the shot. We’re done.”

“You did get the left side of my face, right?” Joe demands dramatically.

* * *

New plans have to wait for three hours as we get stuck in interviews. It’s the same questions on the song-writing process, what we’ve thought of this tour so far, what it feels like to gain sudden fame and recognition, who Jackie is, and so on. I sit on one of the thousands of seats in the oval shaped auditorium, watching the stage being built in one end. A cigarette hangs between my lips as a pretty reporter extends the microphone towards me to catch my mumbled words. She’s a philosopher, asking me what rock is, how I perceive it, how it can change the world.

She’s exactly my type: petite, blonde, full breasts. If I weren’t fucking Brendon, I’d probably be chatting her up right now.

Roadies and venue workers keep walking back and forth across the floor, creating a distracting background noise with bangs and shouts. I see Brendon and William walking from the direction of the stage to our stack of gear, deep in conversation. The photographer who is accompanying the blonde thing interrogating me is snapping photos for the article near the stage.

“Is it true you suffer from stage fright?” the interviewer asks with innocent eyes.

“Who told you that?” I ask, chuckling. Then I add, “I used to.” One ounce of honesty per day.

“But you don’t anymore?”

“No, I don’t.”

She waits. I blink. She tentatively asks, “Could you... elaborate? When did this start? What caused it? How did you overcome it?”

I think back to all the bathrooms I have locked myself into this summer, shaking, trembling and cursing, Spencer’s steady hands on my shoulders, murmuring encouragements into my ears. One night I was this close to throwing up from the nerves.

I haven’t done that on this leg. I suppose I’ve forgotten to be nervous. The crowds still terrify me, but I’ve been focused on other things. Right before going on stage, I’ve been disappearing with Brendon instead of obsessing about the audience.

I don’t want to elaborate because I can’t tell the truth.

I spot Joe walking up the stairs into our section of seats, and I ask, “Oh, you talked to Joe yet? He’s got very insightful views on the universal influence of music. Joe! Joe, she wants to interview you!”

I quickly stand up, finishing my cigarette as the flushed girl stutters that we only sat down three minutes ago. Joe, however, is hurrying over, a grin on his face. “You want to ask the Trohman a few questions? Sure thing, doll.”

Satisfied with myself, I leave the two behind and descend the stairs, entering the enormous floor where the crowd will be jumping and sweating. William and Brendon are next to the semi-finished stage, and I head over. “What’s up?” I ask them casually while letting my eyes roam over Brendon’s form quickly and discreetly. He looks good today. What a surprise.

My mind’s been playing a porno loop of me and him since the photo shoot. Fuck, my skin is crawling by now.

“The shape of the stage is not quite what we had in mind,” William explains, brows furrowing in deep concentration. “We’re wondering how we’ll position the monitors. One of them must have broken last night because it’s just not working. Zack tried fixing it, but no such luck.”

William goes on to share his concerns, but I’m not listening. Brendon is being attentive, though, nodding his head thoughtfully to his friend’s words. He’s been better these past few days, more social, definitely smiling. I’ve caught him lost in his thoughts a few times, a glassy expression in his brown eyes, but then I manage to pull him out of it with a casual note or a simple poke to his ribs.

There’s no use thinking about the dead. They’re dead.

“I’m sure you’ll manage, William,” I say impatiently and focus on the object of my current desires. “Brendon.”

“Yeah?” He looks at me with a blank expression. I try to signal him with my eyes. He looks confused.

“We should... go talk. Remember? We wanted to talk?” I ask hopefully.

“No,” he frowns, now facing the stage and adding, “If we put two monitors there, we’re taking a wedge from Brent,” pointing out the places for the monitors.

“Oh, yeah,” William says worriedly. “What if we put Brent closer to Ryan tonight, if they could share? Or place the sidefill closer to Brent?”

Fuck the monitors.

“Brendon,” I try again, surprised when there’s a slight whine to my voice. We could be on the bus by now, sinking into the couch as we tug our jeans down and out of the way. I could be getting head from the blonde interviewer right now too, but I’ve decided to go with him. He should be flattered.

“We need to finish this, Ry,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, and I just manage to catch the grin he is trying to hold back before his face is absolutely neutral again.

I stare in astonishment. He’s being a tease. He is intentionally cock-blocking me. He knows why I’m here, what I want, and he is making me work for it.

Doesn’t he know who I am? I don’t _need_ to work for it. I don’t need to whine or wait around. I could get anyone in this damn auditorium. If Brendon thinks he can play with me, he can think again.

...

“Brendon?” I ask again, more demandingly and with just a bit of desperation now. William gives me a confused side-glance.

“Alright,” Brendon grants, flashing William a friendly smile as he follows me.

We walk side by side towards one of the exits. He doesn’t say anything, no tension in his shoulders. I chew on my lower lip worriedly, glancing over my shoulder once, but there is no one around who knows us.

“So,” he says casually, checking his wristwatch. “I think we’ve got fifteen minutes before someone comes looking for me.”

“Alright.”

We get to the bus in two minutes, just one of the roadies and the frontman getting on the bus they spend most of their time in anyway, probably to look for a missing shirt, take a nap, nothing out of the ordinary.

We land on the couch in the lounge, Brendon on top as I kiss him hungrily. My god, _finally_. He sucks on my lower lip, letting out a slutty moan as he grinds against me. “What was that about?” I ask hastily, but he hums in question. “Monitors?”

He pulls back, hair in disarray. His pupils are slightly blown, his mouth promisingly red. I brush some hair behind his ear, trying to catch my breath. It’s only been a few days since we agreed on casual sex, and sadly, we haven’t even had that much of it yet. It’s practically impossible to sneak away when there are no hotel nights and we’re constantly surrounded by the guys, but we fucked the other day and he blew me before our show last night, so it’s been an alright deal so far, even if I horrifyingly begin to feel like Joe, a self-proclaimed sex addict.

“Important stuff, monitors,” he argues before he cracks under pressure and grins. “You’re hot when you squirm.”

“I never squirm,” I state, instantly squirming as he grinds against me again.

I hook my calf over his left leg, keeping him close. The kisses are wet and deep, our hips working together to find friction. I don’t want a fifteen – twelve now – minute fuck when I could take all night with him. Can I get off in twelve minutes, though?

Absolutely.

I fight my shirt off me, dropping it onto the floor next to candy wrappers and beer cans. Brendon’s straddling me, his erection visible through his tight jeans. I pop the top button open, sliding the zipper down, eyes hungrily following the trail of body hair that starts at his belly button and disappears in his underwear. God.

“Lube,” he says hurriedly, leaning down to peck my lips before getting off me. He heads for the bunks, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes, and I groan, quickly unzipping myself.

Eleven minutes.

I go after him, finding him rummaging his small bunk that is full of clothes. I kiss the nape of his neck, moving onto his shoulders as my arms wrap around his bare torso. He lets out a sigh, turning around and attaching himself to my lips again wantonly and messily. I needily press him against the bunks, wondering if I could lift him and fuck him there, face to face, if that position would work.

His fingers slide from my chest up to my neck, over his chain I forgot to remove, to the back of my head, bringing me closer as the kiss deepens.

“Holy _fuck_!”

My heart jumps to my throat as I detach myself from Brendon instantly, slamming into the bunks behind my back. Someone is standing in the open doorway of the lounge. _Spencer_ is standing in the open doorway of the lounge.

He saw.

“Sorry,” he manages, his face one of complete disbelief and shock with wide, wide eyes and his face as pale as snow. He swirls around, clearly unable to look at me.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck,” I groan in disbelief, feeling horror hit me like a speeding truck slamming into my body. “Wait! Spence, just wait!” I call out, panicking, wiping my mouth, eyes flying from my bare chest to Brendon’s unzipped jeans, mind flashing with the way I had him against the wall, our hands everywhere and our lips locked. And Spencer saw me. With him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I chant, trying to zip myself.

Brendon’s eyes are wide and fearful. “I’m sure he’ll –”

“Don’t talk to me right now!” I snap. Spencer saw us. He knows. _Someone_ knows what I’m doing with the queer roadie.

Brendon’s eyes widen even more. I can see a fresh bite mark on his neck. “God,” I spit, shaking my head.

I’m so fucked.

I pick up my shirt off the lounge floor on my way out, throwing it on me and buttoning it hastily. Brendon calls after me, but fuck him. This is his fault, seducing me on a daily basis, enticing me, making me fornicate with him. I played with fire, and I just got burned.

Spencer’s not outside the bus.

Where did he go? What if he tells the others? What if everyone finds out what I’ve been doing?

I wouldn’t survive it.

It’s Brendon’s fault. Fuck, it’s entirely his fault.

The first person I bump into inside the venue is Zack, who hasn’t seen Spencer. Andy knows that he went to the bus to get a book he’s reading. It’s relatively safe to say Spencer is not on the bus anymore. I look around the enormous venue, at the seats that surround us, hoping to spot him sitting remotely somewhere.

Neither can I find Joe anywhere.

A paralysing fear sets in my guts at the thought of Spencer telling Joe everything. Joe will eat me alive. The one thing I’ve got going for myself in his eyes is how I have not fucked up royally yet. I’ve just lost that.

I’m about to despair when my eyes land on a directions board, arrows pointing to different sections of the venue. The venue has conference rooms. None of us would go there as it only reminds us of record deal negotiations. I shudder at the thought.

That’s where Spencer’s hiding.

The conference rooms are on the second floor, and I go to the first two rooms without finding anything except enormous tables with a jug of water and glasses in the middle. I enter the third room, and Spencer, who is sitting at the far end of the table, flinches and stands up abruptly.

“Wait!” I tell him hurriedly, closing the door behind me. He is about to say something, but I hold up my hands, asking him to give me a chance. He remains silent, but he’s clearly upset. I have to force myself to look him in the eye. I cannot justify what I’m doing with Brendon. Half of the time, I tell myself to get the fuck over it and be normal again. “What you saw is –” I begin before remembering how I walked in on his family, how he said it wasn’t what I thought it was, lying like a coward. “It’s probably exactly what you think it is,” I admit, feeling ashamed.

Spencer’s eyes are angry and confused. “How can you – How long have you…?”

“I just- Look, it’s not that big of a deal. So yeah, I sleep with him sometimes,” I shrug. “That’s all.”

I try to sound casual, but I can barely breathe. My throat feels too tight. At least I gave him more honesty than he’s given me.

God, I’m going to be sick.

“That’s _all_?” Spencer repeats, letting out a short laugh. “That’s- that’s everything! The band and the reputation and if this got out, if this –”

“It will never get out.”

“I just walked in on you two! Are you stupid?!”

“And I’ve just been taught a lesson to be a lot more careful! Everyone who knows is in this room, so how could it get out?” I demand to know. He doesn’t say that he will leak the information or that he will blackmail me. He just looks lost and appalled. Appalled. That’s what I should be feeling whenever I touch Brendon, but I don’t. God, what is wrong with me? “It’s not like it’s a thing. It’s just sex.”

“With a man!” he snaps. “With another – Have you always been like that?” he asks desperately before he pales, eyes widening. He looks nauseous. “Fuck, you’ve seen me naked.”

“What?” I breathe out. “Dude, I’m not- I don’t look at you like that! Jesus Christ!”

He’s my best friend, I’ve known him forever, we’ve _wrestled_ naked on a few occasions when alcohol has been involved. He sees me sucking one guy’s face and this is what he assumes? That I walk around undressing men with my eyes like I’m one of those promiscuous fags prowling up and down Castro Street in Brendon’s immoral San Francisco? “God, that’s sick,” I tell him angrily.

“Exactly! It’s sick!”

And therefore I’m sick.

“Have you not been the one telling us to accept Brendon’s sexuality?” I snap angrily. It’s fine if Brendon does it, but not okay if I do? What a two-faced asshole.

“My best friend wasn’t fucking him then!” he barks, yelling at me from across the room.

A surprised silence lands on us. He called me his best friend. He wouldn’t care about this if he didn’t care about me. Why do I feel this relieved? Spencer looks taken aback himself, but he shakes it off quickly. He eyes the wall, jaw clenching. “What were you thinking, Ryan?”

“Look, I’m not gay! One guy doesn’t make me a fag!” I defend myself. Eric said everyone’s trying god knows what, and we know a few guys who enjoy both men and women, but we also know that those guys are _straight men_ who just occasionally fuck a guy. It’s a deviation and should never be talked of or publically supported. It’s a kink. People have kinks. And I’m nothing if not straight. “Spencer, come on. You’ve seen me with chicks. You, if anyone, know how much I dig chicks!”

“Which is exactly why I feel like someone’s just bashed me with a baseball bat!” he says in frustration, his arms crossing over his chest. He won’t look me in the eye. “Is this- Is this punishment?”

“What?” I ask quietly, completely baffled. I’ve never seen him look defeated like this.

He hesitates, a sorry look on his face. “I married Haley behind your back, so you decided to screw Brendon behind mine. Because if that’s what’s up, then I don’t even know. If you’re so angry with me that putting your dick up a guy’s ass is the only way you feel you’re getting even – Fuck, I don’t want to think about _what_ you do,” he grimaces, face flashing with disgust.

I swallow hard, willing myself not to tremble. “It doesn’t make me gay.”

My words sound feeble to my own ears. Before this tour, I would have agreed with him wholeheartedly, that two men fucking is unnatural and disgusting. One cock too many in that equation. But now that I’ve done it, everything I’ve known about sex has completely transformed itself. It’s a whole new world of sexual interaction I didn’t know I’d enjoy. I’ve never been obsessed with sex, not the way Joe is. I can go without getting any for a long time. But now, with Brendon? It’s like being inside him is all I can think about. A constant yearning for his lips and skin and groans, and we’ve only managed to get together a few times, so I jerk off three times a day now when I can’t have him. I go to the bathroom, thinking about him, my hunger for him, and I’ve never been obsessed like this before. I’m not in complete control of my urges, and it’d be frightening if it weren’t so thrilling. Everything Brendon does feels like an invitation, and afterwards, I only want him more.

I’ve figured out that it must be lust. I’ve never experienced that until now.

After a long pause, Spencer heaves a sigh. “So what are you saying? That you’re bisexual?”

“Bisexual?” I echo.

“Yeah, you know, like David is. You swing both ways.”

“Maybe that kind of an explanation works in Europe,” I snort. You could never get away with that here. It doesn’t matter you do girls, they will only focus on you doing guys, and that will probably make you even worse than a gay man. You prey on the women too while still practising your twisted behaviour with men. No, being bisexual is completely out of the question. I am so not that. “I’m straight. I’m Ryan Ross, I fucking love girls and I love eating pussy, I’m just –” I swallow hard, mind racing, “getting off with Brendon. He’s on the bus with me. He wants me, so what the hell, you know? He knows what’s what. We’ve talked about it.”

“You’re not in love or anything?” Spencer asks tentatively.

“With another guy?” I ask, not able to stop the crooked smile from appearing on my lips. “With _anyone_?”

He has to know me better than that.

And he does. He laughs, shaking his head, but he’s smiling now. “You’re the most twisted fucker I know.”

Something stirs up in my chest, something I haven’t felt since Cincinnati. Some of the tension in Spencer’s shoulders is gone. He knows what I’m doing, and he’s still here.

“Just don’t make this more than it is,” I ask him quietly.

He finally approaches me, perhaps now convinced that I don’t want to have sex with him. I really don’t. Not with him, not with anyone else on our crew or in the venue. It’s all Brendon in my head.

“Maybe I should’ve known. I mean, you spend all your time with him. Joe and Brent are making fag jokes, but they’re just jokes. None of us actually think that you two… fuck. Literally.” He stops a bit further from me than perhaps he normally would. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he mumbles. “I just wish I didn’t know.”

That makes two of us. I wake up every damn day wanting to be oblivious to Haley and Suzie. If I didn’t know and he didn’t know, we could still be friends.

“I know your secret, you know mine,” I offer.

He nods solemnly. “Then I guess I have to keep it.” He looks restless as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Be careful what you’re doing. This is bad, I can feel it. You fucking that kid is not going to end up well.”

Brendon is probably as old as Spencer is, but we call everyone kids. This band has taken such a ride that we all have seen more than enough of the world. We’re older and, in comparison, most of the people our age are just kids. I don’t really see Brendon like that, though. He’s seen death and he’s seen loss. He’s seen more than most.

“It’s not going to end up in any way,” I assure him. Spencer’s predictions are true nine times out of ten, but not this time. “I told you it’s nothing.” Spencer’s lips turn into a crooked smile, and I look at him suspiciously. “What?”

“Nothing. If you say it’s nothing, then I believe you. Even if I cannot for the life of me wrap my head around you being intimate with men –”

“Not plural.”

“One is enough to throw me off balance,” he notes sourly. “I didn’t know you were inclined to even try. Do what you do, but I don’t want to know. I mean it. I don’t want to see as much as a look between you two.”

“If it took walking in on us to figure it out...” I note.

“But I know now,” he says worriedly, sounding slightly paranoid in my opinion. “Just keep it below the radar. Is that too much to ask?”

“No,” I assure him, even if some tiny part of me feels insulted for some strange reason. I wasn’t thinking. I haven’t been. The bus is too small and public for me and Brendon to do anything there. Brendon could be sensible and stop me when he must know that I don’t think straight when he’s around.

“Alright. Good.” Spencer clears his throat. “And if you say there’s nothing going between you and Brendon, apart from what I saw, then I’m –”

Spencer shuts up the instant the door to the conference room opens, and Pete walks in. “Hey, guys!” he smiles, looking at us curiously. “I thought I heard your voices! Bad timing?”

I sneak a glance at Spencer. “Not at all.”

“You guys sharing secrets?” he asks suspiciously before laughing. “Just kidding! Ryan, that blonde girl playing to be a reporter is refusing to leave until you give her a proper interview.”

“Not now,” I instantly refuse.

“Alrighty, I’ll have her thrown out,” our manager assures us, still smiling widely. He stares like he’s waiting for something, but when it doesn’t come, he adds, “You guys can confide in me, you know. You’d be surprised just how aware I am of everything that goes on around here. Leave it with me, boys. I’ve got you covered.” He winks and taps his nose.

My god. He’s looking at the drummer, who is secretly married and has a child, and the frontman, who is conducting an illicit homosexual affair. Pete has no fucking idea, has he?

“We were just... talking about our birthdays. Probably throwing a joint party when we get to LA,” I offer.

Pete’s eyes light up. “What a great idea! Oh, you can leave that with me, I’ll throw you two the best party!”

“Fantastic,” Spencer says, and we awkwardly follow Pete out of the room. Pete inquires what kind of a birthday bash we have in mind, informing us that when he called the label yesterday, they already had four boxes of presents fans have sent us.

Spencer looks at me wearily, and I try not to feel like his suspicion of me has wounded me deeper than I thought possible.

* * *

Andy is driving us to Oklahoma City, loudly lamenting how he can’t drink as he’s on duty and that he will pass out from withdrawal before we hit the state line. The rest of us are in the lounge, waiting to take off, except for our manager and Brent’s designated roadie. My attention is focused outside where Pete and Brendon are talking. Brendon’s got his back to the bus so I can’t see his expression, but Pete’s got his business face on. He uses it whenever he talks about the label to me.

What are they discussing that they couldn’t talk about as we’re driving?

Joe says a pondering, “When we tour Europe, we need to finish up in London so we can stay there for at least a week afterwards.” He keeps talking about the theoretical tour to annoy me, but right now, I’m distracted.

Pete offers Brendon a cigarette, and they begin to smoke. Andy is impatiently drumming the wheel and singing our _Six in the Morning_ , waiting for the two missing crew members to get on the bus so we can go.

The couch dips next to me and Spencer’s voice mutters, “You know, staring isn’t particularly the best way to keep it under the radar.”

I glance at him briefly. “Words spoken by a professional.”

“Just giving tips on how to be non-conspicuous.”

I turn to face the lounge, heaving a sigh. Since when have I cared what orders Pete gives to one of our roadies? It’s not like I take special interest in Brendon. My only interest there is making sure that Pete doesn’t put too much pressure on him. His brother didn’t die too long ago, not that they know that. We don’t need Brendon to crack under pressure.

I glance at Spencer casually. “So what did you and Hales fight about?”

He flinches, and I try not to smirk. I can still read him as easily as ever. It’s not often a recent father volunteers to go to Europe and not spend his time gushing over his daughter, but even if he was against the tour, I could tell something’s wrong from the restless look in his eyes. His thoughts are probably repeatedly stuck on, ‘What did I do? Was it something I said? Is she still mad? Should I call her?’

“Everything,” he replies, and I quirk a surprised eyebrow. I was not expecting a straight answer. He lowers his voice as he leans over slightly, sneaking a glance around the lounge. “Truthfully... we’re kind of on a break. It just felt a bit too intense, you know? I mean, I adore her and Suzie, but it’s like she thought us getting married would mean all these changes, and I’m not ready to give up quite as much as she wants me to. So. Break.”

“Can married couples go on breaks?” I didn’t know they could.

“Sure. I think,” he frowns. He clearly doesn’t have anyone else to talk to if he’s telling me this. It’s not like anyone else knows his secret. “It’s 1974. I’m pretty sure married couples can take breaks,” he concludes thoughtfully.

The engine starts up, and I instantly turn to see Brendon and Pete enter the lounge. Brendon glances at me and Spencer before he mumbles, “I think I’ll just go to bed. Night, guys.” William asks him to stay, but Brendon shakes his head. Spencer is making a point of studying his nails, and I feel uncomfortable with the two of them in the room. Now that Spencer knows, he might catch the way I can’t help but look at Brendon, and Spencer specifically requested to be left in the dark and oblivious to me undressing Brendon with my eyes.

Pete looks disapproving when the roadie wants to go. I don’t care about the united team spirit like Pete does, but Brendon looks like he wants to go to his bunk to mope and ponder about death. I’ll let him. Rather that than freak Spencer out further. Brendon leaves without another look at me.

I indulge my bandmates, gracing them with my company until we hit the highway. Joe plays _Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show_ on his acoustic as William does backup vocals for him and Brent and Zack clap the beat. I swear the air is misty from the cigarette and grass smoke. I’m getting a pleasant second-hand high.

“I’m exhausted,” I tell the guys, though I’m not. “I’ll try and get some sleep.”

“You should stay,” Spencer says, being the only one expressing their wish for me to grace them with my presence longer. When I shake my head, Spencer glances towards the bunks and mutters, “He’s probably asleep already, anyway.”

“Sorry?” I ask, gritting my teeth. So now he assumes that whenever I’m not in sight, I’m banging Brendon? Is that why he confided in me about his failing marriage? To pull me back in because we’re both epic fuck ups? “I manage my time the best way I see fit,” I point out. “And I said I’m going to bed.”

The guys call goodnights after me.

The lights aren’t on in the bunk area when I enter. I keep my fingers tracing the wall as the door closes behind me. I locate the switch, and the narrow corridor lights up. Most of the curtains are hanging open, revealing bundled up pillows, covers and dirty clothes, but Brendon’s curtain is closed. I stop outside his bunk.

“I know you’re not asleep,” I state firmly, lifting an eyebrow at the orange curtain. It opens after a few seconds, revealing Brendon lying on his back in the narrow space. He’s stripped down to grey briefs and a white t-shirt that’s ridden up his body slightly. He’s keeping his eyes on the ceiling, taking in a deep breath. I watch his chest rise. I get the insane urge to crawl into the bunk with him. “Avoiding me or everyone in general?” I ask quietly.

He stares at the bunk ceiling with a blank expression, one hand beneath his head, the other resting on his stomach. “Everyone, more or less.”

“You pissed off?” I ask. He avoided me the entire night. I was hoping to fool around before the show tonight, but he was nowhere to be found. We played a shit show. I was terrified of the audience again, and my flask was empty. Since when have I forgotten to keep it filled to the brim?

“Why would I be pissed off? Because you walked out on me when Spencer saw us and then avoided me?”

Alright, so maybe I avoided him too, initially. We had a pretty good cycle of avoidance going on until I felt like it had been too long since I had been inside him.

“Don’t give me shit about going after Spencer.” How did he expect me to react? Politely ask Spencer to drop by later? Brendon can’t expect me to defend my idiocy.

He sighs and rolls his head to the side. He’s got bed hair. I wonder what he looks like in the mornings when he first wakes up. I’ve never seen that. He says, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.”

Really, he’s not. He’s probably pleased that someone found out what I’m doing. He’s far too pushy with his promotion of gay lifestyle, and since I am, in theory, at least engaging in sex typical to said lifestyle, he probably thinks I should be telling everyone I know, calling my dad to inform him of this sudden development and then announce it on stage too.

“Spencer avoided me all night.”

“Well, he’s freaked the fuck out,” I note. “He saw me with my tongue down your throat.”

Brendon gives me a full blown grin. “A shame he walked in when he did.”

I snort and try to ignore how sexy he looks right now. “I talked to him, and he’s going to keep his mouth shut. It’s lucky it was him. Anyone else, and we’d be fucked.” Or, rather, I’d be fucked. Everyone expects him to do something irresponsible and faggot-like, anyway. “From now on, the key word is discretion.”

“You have none.”

“Then I’ll get some,” I grin, feeling my stomach flip when his eyes sparkle. When did flirting with him begin to feel so natural? I tear my eyes off of his fingers sliding an inch closer to the top of his briefs. I know how soft his skin is there. “So what did Pete want?” I ask to change the subject.

He shrugs. “Just some crew stuff. The broken monitor. He’s made some calls, the new one should be waiting for us at the next venue. He really takes his job seriously, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

I hear voices right behind the bunk doors and shift worriedly. I said I’d go to bed, not go talk to Brendon. He catches me looking towards the lounge, and I know he disapproves of me treating him like the dirtiest and nastiest secret I’ve ever had, but that’s because he is.

“Goodnight,” I tell him before I do something stupid like actually crawl into his bunk.

“Goodnight,” he returns, but it sounds like he is disappointed that I don’t plan to give him as much as he wants. Tough luck. I’m giving him one night to get over it because he’s in no position to give me an attitude.

For a second, I consider leaning in to capture his lips in a goodnight kiss, but then it occurs to me that casual sex whilst on tour excludes that.

Instead, I pull his curtain closed for him.


	4. White Noise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a reference to [Richard Cory](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=euuCiSY0qYs), a totally kick ass song.

The goal of sex, as I’ve understood it, is to get off, so I’ve never asked myself how long it’s physically possible to fuck without coming.

I really should have.

The morning sun is coming in through the curtains, giving Brendon’s skin a golden glow. A drop of sweat rolls down his chest, crossing his flat stomach as his hips move in a slow, steady rhythm. My eyelids flutter shut as I push up to meet him, heated pleasure prickling up and down my spine.

“Fuck,” I sigh helplessly. His hands land on my chest, running upwards, my skin burning up at the touch. He is biting on his lower lip, muffling a groan as he slowly, slowly rides me, his weight on me. My toes get tangled up in the sheets.

God, he has no idea how good he’s making me feel.

“Hotel nights,” he manages, breathing in deep and unevenly. His cock is proudly erected and leaking, the tip shiny. _I_ have no idea how good I’m making him feel.

I close my fingers around his wrist, feeling his rapid pulse through the skin, like his heart is going for the world record. “Thank god for those,” I groan, feeling his hips come down, him sinking onto my cock. We both cry out without meaning to. _Fuck_.

I try to tug him down by his wrist, but he shakes his head, eyes closing and face flashing with pleasure like he can’t focus on anything else right now besides the way our bodies are connected. He rolls his hips as I fuck up into him, and an involuntary moan escapes from my lips.

“God, I love hearing you,” he breathes, and only then do I become aware of all the moans and gasps I’m completely failing to muffle. I know I’m the grunt-when-climax guy usually, but this? How could anyone keep quiet during _this_? Thanks to a fuck up or another, my hotel room is on a different floor than the others’ – of course we had to make use of it.

My hands move to rest on his thighs, nails digging in. I held his hips at first, determining the speed and depth, enjoying the way he whimpered and gasped when I got the angle right, but then I forgot to keep it up. He’s got an amazing sense of rhythm, though. I’ve seen him play the drums a few times, so I shouldn’t be surprised. Now we’ve figured out our own speed, and there are no seams in it – it’s a breathtaking, brain-melting, fluid movement that has his chest flushed and sweat rolling down my hairline.

“I’m gonna die,” Brendon informs me in a half-moan, a dirty “ah” escaping his lips when my cock pushes in as deep as it can go. His breaths are short, shaky gasps. He twitches. “God, right there- Oh fuck, _ohfuck_ ,” he slurs, the muscles of his stomach quivering, fingernails scratching my chest.

He keeps up the rhythm, angle and depth, clearly driving himself insane. I bite on my lower lip so as not to grunt, my other hand moving to my hair, like that will somehow help keep my head on. It works somehow, pulling on my own hair. It helps coordinate everything, deal with the sensations rattling through me. My hips buck up, pushing into him, and he’s so _tight_.

He slows down the pace. He is heaving, cheeks rosy and pupils blown. I had given up hope that he’d fucking kiss me when he leans down to do just that. I instantly attach my lips to his. The kiss is salty; sweat has pooled onto his upper lip. He whimpers against my mouth.

I thought we’d come back to my room for a quick fuck, not that we’d end up having an inhumanely long fuck session. Bottled up energy from quick handjobs before shows, clearly, as discretion is proving to be the same as celibacy. Right now, I’m not complaining.

I’m drowning, not needing air as we kiss. He begins to pull back, but I place both hands to the back of his head and pull him back in. He groans – in objection at first, then in pleasure. My tongue pushes into his mouth, dirty and wet, tracing his taste, while I try to take a hold of his damp hair, only managing to let the short strands sweep through my fingers. He kisses back hungrily, his leaking cock twitching against my stomach.

I run one hand over his shoulder blades and down his spine. The skin is slick with sweat, and I can feel his bones beneath the skin. I cup his ass, reaching further until my fingers find the place where I disappear into his body, where he’s stretched and filled. Brendon jerks as my fingers explore the area that’s wet from lube, around the base of my hard dick that’s buried in him. I try to press in the tip of my middle finger.

Brendon breaks the kiss, choking on his breath. His eyes are wide but dark. “I’m gonna come if you do that,” he whispers, voice trembling.

I lick my lips slowly. So he could take it. “Good.”

He presses our foreheads together, trying to catch his breath. “Let me. Just this once.”

I pull my hand back, silently bending to his will. I always make him come first. I don’t feel comfortable finishing up before he’s been pushed over the edge, maybe because I don’t trust myself to care enough to relieve him after my own release. But if he wants to switch roles this once, then okay. Fuck, I can’t hold back much longer, anyway.

Brendon straightens up, keeping one hand on my chest for balance. His pupils look more blown than I’ve ever seen them.

He picks up a steady, torturing pace. I place my hands on his hips, thumbs tracing the hipbones sticking through the skin as he moves. There’s an angry, red mark on the other one from where I bit him earlier when we were pulling each other’s clothes off. I press my thumb against the bruise, and Brendon’s breathing hitches. His head rolls back as he rides me a bit harder now. He sounds so _dirty_ , and god, he’s so responsive.

Now I know why he said he was going to die. If not that, I’m going to pass out. The pleasure is fucking overwhelming. My hands grip his hips because I desperately need something to hold onto. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s got me right where he wants me.

“You still with me?” Brendon’s voice asks, swallowing hard. The pace is steadily increasing, the way he comes down and the way I push up. He’s got his other hand slowly stroking his flushed, leaking cock. God, he’s so hard from fucking himself on me. My hips have now resorted to irregular and uncoordinated thrusts, a sporadic response to the stimulation that is making me see stars.

“Uh huh,” I manage.

The sun that is shining through the windows catches my eyes, blinding me for a second. There was a party after the show, and we didn’t get back to the hotel until four in the morning, Brendon not able to slip away from his and William’s shared room immediately, and since we’re clearly pushing for a record here, the sun has caught up with us.

Not the dimly lit back lounge or the fluorescent lights of a backstage bathroom. I see him perfectly in the gentle light of dawn and can’t look away.

He’s now letting himself slam down, loud groans escaping. “Oh god, oh _god_ ,” he groans, fisting himself harder. The muscles of his thighs are trembling by my sides.

My head slams into the pillow. My body feels electric, every inch of my skin sensitive to the touch. “Brendon, I can’t –”

“That’s okay, that’s okay,” he hurries to say, but he doesn’t get it, how I can’t contain it anymore, how I’m breaking apart beneath him. My hands run up his thighs restlessly, brushing his stomach and chest, running over the hand he has on his cock. He groans at the back of his throat, a hint of desperation in it.

“Shit,” I gasp breathlessly.

The bed creaks loudly, and he places one hand where my ribs end, heel pressing into the skin as he rides me. His cock disappears and reappears from his fist. My hands move to the sheets where they gather up balls of fabric, closing into fists around them, squeezing as hard as possible.

My entire body vibrates, short, nearly panicked breaths escaping from my lips as he moves. There are levels of pleasure, and in the middle are the ones that are shades of red, lighter and then darker, and when you hit the really dark reds, you come. But if you don’t, the red fades into black, and then turns to grey, and there, at the top of this mountain of ecstasy you had no idea fucking existed, it all turns white: white noise, white electricity, white pleasure.

“Brendon,” I rush out, trying to breathe, but the fire that’s been circling in my veins has now found its way to my throat, cutting off air. It’s heading for the finish line, soaring forwards with incredible speed. I can taste blood from how hard I’m biting on my lower lip. Brendon sinks down onto my cock, tight and hot and fast, and he’s trembling, riding me, touching himself, slick and fiery, moaning and shaking, and I can’t take it.

A soaring fills my ears, white, white noise, and Brendon never stops moving, but keeps slamming down, and his voice sounds distant and it’s hard to make out the words from the explosion of pleasure, but it sounds like a rushed, “Fuck, _fuck_ , that’s it – Come on, Ry – God, I can _feel_ you –”

Something drops heavy in me, not just the mind-blowing orgasm that rattles through me, reorganising my molecules, and it’s not the white noise, white noise, white noise. It’s his hands on my chest, the way there is only him and then nothing, and I am diving into it deeper and deeper. Fuck, it just goes _on_ , and when I know I physically can’t have more semen to empty inside him, I keep coming.

My eyes flutter open, catching the way his hips roll down, my cock disappearing into him. Both of his hands are pressed against my chest for balance. He slams down and comes. He’s not touching himself, but he pushes down on me and _comes_ , cock twitching, fingernails digging into my chest, mouth dropping open as he rushes out, “Oh god, oh god, yes, _yes_ –” and then it stops being words and turns into the filthiest moan I’ve ever heard, erupting deep from his chest, low, masculine and helpless. His muscles squeeze around me, and I curse blindly as air escapes my lungs. His come hits my chest and stomach, warm and wet, oozing white. It’s all white.

I’ve never known why it’s called a little death. Suddenly, I do.

His movements come to an eventual stop when we’ve both finished. His cock is still pulsating against my stomach, his muscles still quivering around my own. I feel drained. Absolutely fucking drained.

Brendon rolls off of me, crashing onto the bed unceremoniously. I blink at the ceiling. It’s white.

Our loud, uneven breaths fill the air, sounding like we’ve just finished a marathon. It takes a while for me to realise that, if I want to see him, I need to move my head, which proves to be challenging when my motor skills seem to have paralysed. I finally manage to turn my head to the side a little.

Brendon’s got one hand over his face, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard, brown hair sticking out everywhere. His chest is flushed red, a sheen of sweat on his lean body, drops of semen catching the sunlight right where his pubic hair starts. Mine or his? No idea.

I close my eyes and try to pull myself together. “So you, like... came without touching yourself,” I observe shakily, having difficulty speaking. He lets out an agreeing sound. I taste blood in my mouth. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Me neither,” he laughs, and then he’s just laughing, covering his eyes, mouth in a wide grin. I blink. He’s fucking insane.

His come is cooling on my skin unpleasantly, and I wipe it off the best I can, drying my hand on the sheets. My hand is shaking. I flex my fingers, staring at the long digits in astonishment. Still trembling. My brain has been reduced to mush, and my insides feel like they’ve swollen, like there is something inside me that is too huge for my body to contain. It’s definitely not helping with the shaking and how I might’ve just had the best orgasm of my life.

“Are you alright?” Brendon asks me, and I flinch. He looks at me curiously, moving to sit on his knees next to me. I hate him for being able to move already. My hand inches to one of his knees, and it seems to help with the trembling. Not enough, though. He stares at me in wonder. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Brendon gazes down at me, his eyes full of depth that reveals nothing. He smiles when I least expect it, probably telling himself a silent joke that he is leaving me out of. He doesn’t lie down. I know he’s not going to snuggle up against me, that we won’t start trading slow kisses. We don’t do that after we’ve come. This morning, the post-sex routine will probably involve him getting dressed and sneaking back to his room while William’s still asleep.

My heart rate has slowly come back down, and my hands have stopped shaking. Brendon’s still looking at me, like he’s waiting for something.

“I don’t wanna sleep,” I sigh.

“You’re not tired after that?”

“No,” I lie. I’m fucking exhausted, but I don’t want to sleep. “Let’s go somewhere. Do something. We’ve got time before bus call, right?”

He nods even as he lifts an eyebrow. “It’s seven in the morning. On a Thursday.”

“And?”

“And we’re in _Omaha_ ,” he points out. Fair point. “Pretty much the only thing worth doing is fucking or sleeping.”

“I find your negative attitude harmful for the team spirit,” I tell him, giving his knee a quick tap before rolling out of bed. “Come on. We’re going.”

He falls back onto the bed dramatically. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“So you said,” I smirk, pulling my boxers on, my knees wobbly and legs weak. Fuck, Brendon will be the death of _me_ if we’re gonna be fucking like that on a regular basis. The feeling of the orgasm lingers, still clouding my thoughts and leaving my body wrecked. It feels like some part of me is giving up or giving into something.

I plan to go down fighting.

Brendon has turned to lie on his stomach, and I trace his naked form, the milky white skin, my eyes skimming over the roundness of his ass. His breathing begins to even out threateningly, so I lean over to give his behind a sturdy slap. He jerks awake. “Ow!”

He turns back around, glaring, and I snatch a shirt from my open suitcase and throw it on. “Come with me.”

“You’re such a whiny ass,” he grumbles bitterly, and I choose to ignore him.

The only reason why I’m putting up with that attitude instead of throwing him out of my hotel room is because we just had amazing sex. He’s lucky he’s so talented in that department.

When we head for the door, both of us dressed and presentable, our fingers brush together.

Once outside, I stuff my hands into my pockets and cast my eyes downwards.

* * *

So the fag’s right. There is nothing to do in Omaha at seven in the morning on a Thursday. The streets are desolated, one car driving by once every five minutes. The shops won’t open for another few hours, so there is no reason for anyone to be up and about. The sun is steadily rising in the horizon, and I can already tell that it’s going to be a hot day.

We’ve practically got the street to ourselves as we stroll down in silence. The initial tiredness has faded away from the fresh air and bright light. Brendon keeps looking at the shop fronts and street signs. “Look,” he says when we pass a record shop that has copies of _Boneless_ on display. I just shrug. Our albums are everywhere, so it’s stopped being amazing.

Buy Ryan Ross’s bleeding heart for three dollars and forty-nine cents.

“Absurd what they ask for records these days, isn’t it?” I point out.

“How much would you pay for it?”

“Nothing. Get it all for free, anyway,” I mutter as I get out a pack of cigarettes. I offer him one, and we start smoking outside the record stop.

I picture myself walking down the street as someone who does it regularly and not as a visiting rock star who made the city’s youth scream their lungs out last night. What if Spencer and I hadn’t met Brent at Woodstock? What if we had, but hadn’t gotten a lift back out West? What if we had gotten stuck here, for example? I’d probably be doing a shit job of some kind. Bus driver. Mailman. Guitar long forgotten in one corner of a shitty house. And this Thursday would be my first day off in a while, and I’d sleep in until the sun woke me up. Scratch my stomach, fry bacon and eggs. Eat in front of the TV. Get in my car, drive to a friend’s house. Drink up, talk bullshit about local politics and feel mutual resentment towards the city council members in their nice cars and nice suits. Worry about the car’s engine that has been letting out a wheezing sound lately, and I’d live that life not knowing what London looks like after two days of heavy rain, what it feels like to open your hotel room door to find a beautiful girl behind it, waiting and willing. I’d live not knowing any of it. I could have ended up here, ignorant but free. I could have.

Bullshit.

I would have never put the guitar down. Even now, when I know the hell it has brought me, the hell that is to come, I can’t put that fucking instrument down.

I watch Brendon taking a long drag. The wind ruffles his hair.

I can’t stay away from what’s bad for me.

“You hungry?” he asks. “I’m famished.”

I’d make a reference to our fuck fest earlier, but we don’t refer to it in public. I can still taste him in my mouth, feel him beneath my fingers. The physical distance between us feels confusing somehow.

“Hotel breakfast?” he goes on to ask.

I scrunch my nose, slowly sucking on my cigarette. “Don’t wanna go back yet.”

“Well, there’s a diner around the corner. It should be open.”

“When did you become the official tour guide to Omaha?” I ask sceptically because he’s pointing to a direction we didn’t come from.

He flicks his cigarette to the ground and steps on it. “Probably when I used to live here.”

I instantly stop smoking and stare at him, feeling my guts tie together. He doesn’t notice, just nods towards the direction of this supposed diner. “Come on.”

He didn’t lie – there is a tiny diner just off the street we were on. It’s dead as one can expect, and we both automatically choose the booth that’s the furthest from the counter. Brendon orders himself pancakes, and I go for some pie. I usually have a craving for something sweet after sex, though that’s a secret I’ll take to the grave.

As we sip our coffees, Brendon notes, “Your lower lip is bruised.”

“Yeah.” I bit on it too hard. It feels swollen and sore, a hint of iron in the taste when my tongue sweeps over it. I lean back in the booth, against the red leather of the seats, as Brendon bums another cigarette off me. “So are you from Omaha?” I ask.

“No, but I lived here once,” he explains, which I knew because I know where he’s from. Or, well, Audrey never told me what town, but still. As far as Brendon is concerned, though, I know his first name, that he has a dead brother, he lives in San Francisco and likes cock.

“When?”

He shrugs indifferently, and I insist, “No, really. When was that?”

He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, but eventually, he says, “’67, ’68, I think. I don’t remember for sure. You know how kids are at that age, don’t pay attention to things like that.”

“Your family moved around, then,” I conclude. I wait for Brendon to say that no, his family wasn’t with him, but he says nothing at all. I know his family wasn’t with him. God, he gives nothing away, does he? What has he done and what has he seen that is so bad he won’t tell anyone about it?

The way he looks at me is making me feel like he’s estimating me somehow, trying to weigh me. He shakes the cigarette above the ashtray, small grey flecks floating down. “I worked at this steak house on Harney Street downtown, washing dishes every night from five p.m. to one a.m. Never seen so much grease in my life. The place actually made me a vegetarian for six months.”

“Made you a what?” I frown.

“I didn’t eat meat.”

“That cannot be healthy,” I mutter, refraining from making a joke about him loving meat in other forms, down his throat, up his ass, but then he’ll get pissy and the box to Brendon’s past will snap shut right before my eyes.

“It’s trendy in San Francisco. I know, like, at least one guy who doesn’t eat meat,” he says. Yeah, well, what isn’t trendy in that city?

He keeps smoking, and I catch sight of a bruise on his neck where my mouth must have attached itself at one point. I wonder what the guys will think. They’ll probably assume that Brendon and William are fucking. But what will William think about Brendon disappearing for hours on end, coming back looking utterly fucked? Not that that twig of a man will be able to piece it together, but he must be suspicious.

“Plates, they’re alright to wash. Spoons too. They had these steak knives with these tiny crooks that were impossible to clean, and don’t even get me started on glasses,” he says, shaking his head as he takes another drag. “Sparkly, sparkly. When it wasn’t sparkly enough, they fired my ass. Probably just because they needed an excuse. I’m still pretty sure my boss saw me with this guy I took home one night. My fault. Should’ve known better. But at least they came up with an excuse. Most places haven’t bothered.”

The waitress brings our food, giving us suspicious looks though she refrains from commenting. It’s not that she suspects _that_ , it’s just how we look with dirty hair, stubble, wrinkled clothes, eyes red from sleep deprivation. Or at least I’m speaking for myself. Brendon always manages to look stunning.

She lingers by the booth after we’ve mumbled thanks. Is she gonna kick us out or what?

“I’m sorry, but you’re Ryan Ross,” she blurts out when I finally lift an eyebrow at her. I blink. A thirty-year-old waitress in a diner in Omaha. Wow. It’s true. Everyone knows me now.

“He is,” Brendon supplies easily, flashing a grin my way. Backstabbing fucker.

“I recognised you from The Rolling Stone cover,” she explains nervously, now offering a napkin and a pen, “I-I hope you don’t mind if –”

“Not at all,” I mutter impatiently, quickly signing the napkin for her.

“Thank you!” she beams when I pass it back to her. “Oh, I- We keep a camera in the back if –”

“Maybe a bit later. We’re in the middle of a conversation,” I tell her flatly, pointing between myself and Brendon. She blushes furiously and stutters on her words, making a quick exit.

Brendon gives me a harsh look. “I thought you decided to be nice to the fans now.”

“Fuckever. What I want to know is how you juggled high school and that job.”

Brendon looks astonished, but it’s sufficient enough a reason to send waitress girl on her way. Brendon is sharing, which, for the record, never happens. It’s probably the post-orgasm fuzziness that’s making him loosen the ropes around his past, which won’t last forever.

“So?” I press on.

“I wasn’t in school anymore,” he says eventually, sounding slightly confused. “Who needs an education, right? God, these smell delicious.” He hungrily digs into his pancakes, snubbing the cigarette on the side of the plate.

And that’s him done sharing. Great.

So he never went back to school? At any point? Lucky bastard. I should’ve disappeared off the face of the earth at fifteen too, saving myself the torture of finishing high school. I was the weird quiet kid who didn’t have a mother and just hung out with that oddball Smith all the time. On the other hand, I can count to ten in French. Maybe that trade was worth it.

“I was a paper boy one summer. Saved up money to buy a guitar,” I tell him quietly as I eat the tasteless apple pie.

He smiles. “Can’t picture you doing anything apart from what you’re doing.”

I stab a piece of the pie with the fork and mumble, “I had my share of shit jobs in LA before the band kicked off. I know what... what it’s like. Being in a place where you don’t know anyone. Fuck, that’s my life every day.”

Brendon stops chewing, giving me a cautious look. “Yeah, I know it is,” he nods eventually. “Can I try your pie?” He leans over to steal a piece without waiting for permission. I let him finish it off, quietly watching out of the window.

It’s our day off, but we’re leaving for Denver in a few hours. We took a vote and unanimously decided that we’d rather spend our extra time in Denver than Omaha. I wonder if Brendon’s lived in Denver, too. Who knows with him? I don’t.

“What’s your last name?” I ask, causing him to flinch.

He sucks pie filling off of his thumb. “Why do you want to know?”

“I could ask Pete, though even he probably doesn’t know.”

“I repeat: why do you want to know?”

“Can’t I take interest in you?”

He frowns, looking genuinely puzzled. “You can. People just don’t.” When I keep staring, he sighs. “Cory.”

I snort. “Yeah, right. You’re only saying that because this place is playing _Sounds of Silence_ and they _just_ played that song.”

Three years ago, you never would have heard that song playing in a diner early in the morning. A song in which a guy blows his brains out and where the lyrics have the word ‘orgy’ in them? Never. Just like _Richard Cory_ once was, our songs are played on night-time radio as my references to sex, drugs, sex, alcohol and sex make it completely unacceptable for them to be played during the day. But give it a few years and my words will become acceptable, and then it will be my voice playing in places like these. And on the day that happens, I _will_ blow my brains out.

Brendon smiles, leaning backwards casually. “Alright. How about Donald? Lewis. Thompson.”

“Fuck off.”

“Jackson, Brown, Peterson, Matt –”  
  
“Urie.”

He stops instantly, eyes widening before his astonishment turns into anger, maybe touching upon fear somewhere in between. “Why do you ask me if you already know?” he snaps coldly, and just like that he’s out of the booth and heading for the door.

I curse under my breath, digging into my pocket for change that I throw on the table. He can’t fucking leave me here – I don’t even know where the hell I am.

“Bye then!” the waitress calls after me nervously.

When I get outside, I just catch sight of Brendon disappearing around the corner. It’s too early in the morning to be running, but I do anyway, catching up with him on the bigger street that is still just as dead as it was before. “Does bad temper run in the family?” I call to his back.

Brendon comes to an abrupt stop, swirling around. “I don’t have time to play your fucking games!” he barks, eyes flashing angrily. I remain unaffected. “Are you snooping around? Are you _spying_ on me? And what business of yours is it?!”

“It’s just your _name_. How can that be classified information?”

“Unlike you, my life has not been written down in interviews, where all the fans know your birthday and your full goddamn name, George Ryan Ross Junior, and –”

“I’m the third, actually.”

“Whatever!” he snaps. “I don’t care! My life is not for sale, and I don’t want to share.”

He storms off, quite reminiscent of William, who does the same thing roughly five times a day, which only reinforces my belief that William is just as gay as Brendon is.

I watch him go disbelievingly. “Hey, come on!” I call after him. “Wait! Come on, Urie! Just wait!”

He instantly turns back, walking right up to me. “ _Don’t_ call me that.”

“Urie?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Can I call you psycho?”

He grits his teeth, eyes flashing dangerously. I think me not getting worked up over him snapping at me is only pissing him off more.

At least, I don’t get worked up until he grumbles, “How do you manage it? Can I ask you that? Going from- from the guy I can’t wait to see right back to the guy I can’t stand the sight of?”

My hands curl into fists. “No one’s forcing you.”

“Oh, I’m being forced,” he snaps, and when he walks away this time, I let him.

* * *

That did not qualify as a fight. Fights involve punches and lots of yelling and throwing things around, not a few snappy remarks early in the morning after pretty fucking amazing sex. And the mere idea of a fight is suggesting the premise of a relationship that goes beyond roadie/musician and casual sex practitioners.

I know his last name. So what? I go on stage every damn night and sing my secrets into a microphone. If someone wanted to, they could probably decipher every one of my lyrics, even the ones I wrote when I was high. And he freaks the fuck out on me because I know one thing about him. Jesus Christ, fucking a gay man is no different from fucking a girl – both are equally irrational.

When Jac throws a bitch fest at me, I usually wait around for a day or two for her to come to her senses. I’m not upset that she’s pissed off because it’s what she does. Jac very rarely does anything that actually _means_ something, which I try to keep in mind whenever I notice Brent looking slightly forlorn and lost in his thoughts. So Jac wanted to go from fucking one Follower to two, perhaps dreaming of conquering Joe next, which I definitely would not put past Joe, anyway.

But that’s just sex. That doesn’t mean anything. And it doesn’t mean anything when Brendon and I spend two and a half hours fucking – not multiple sessions, but all round one – but our non-fight? It won’t let me rest for a second.

It eats me up as I gather my belongings, throwing them all into my suitcase with my back to the bed where Brendon and I didn’t sleep. It’s taking stabs at my goddamn brain when I go down for breakfast, still not having slept, finding Pete and Zack eagerly stuffing fried eggs into their mouths in the breakfast room that is mostly empty apart from them and a few tourist families. It’s downright taunting me when Pete looks concerned and asks me if I’m feeling alright. I tell him I haven’t slept all night. He offers me a pill or two, just something to help me out. I refuse.

And then Spencer joins us, bed hair sticking out as he munches on toast, and Pete instantly shares his concern for my health, and Spencer takes one look at me – just one – and he sighs like he knows what’s up.

Fuck him. He knows nothing.

When Zack takes off to get the bus out front, William and Brendon walk in, both with duffel bags they threw clothes in for the hotel night. William gives us a small wave as they choose a table on the other side of the room. Brendon doesn’t look our way. His hair is wet. Couldn’t stand the smell of me on him, could he?

I glare at my plate, not feeling hungry at all.

“I’ve been making some calls to the guys at the office, about the European tour?” Pete starts. Brendon’s at the buffet table, looking at the different cereals. I know he’ll go for Freakies before he even lifts the box. He always eats those. “They’ve been sketching it out, contacting our London office –”

“Look, can we- Can we not talk about this right now?” I ask impatiently. Brendon’s now back at his table with William, and William is chatting away, Brendon nodding occasionally but clearly detached from it.

“Ryan, come on. You gotta work with me, man. We need to discuss this,” Pete sighs. “Hasn’t Brendon talked to you about it?”

“No. Why would he? He’s got nothing to do with it,” I point out, adding, “Barely talk to the guy, anyway.”

“I know, but – Yeah. Maybe later?”

“Later,” I shrug, and Pete nods solemnly, disappointment clear. He mumbles that he’ll go see if the bus is out front yet.

Slowly, the rest of the crew comes down for breakfast, taking their time stuffing their faces with as much food as they can before bus call. My crumpled up napkin lies on top of the food I didn’t even touch. Andy is sitting with William and Brendon now, but Brendon isn’t taking part in the conversation.

Spencer mumbles, “Told you nothing good would come of it.”

I snap out of staring at Brendon. “Don’t talk about things you don’t know,” I tell him sourly.

“Doesn’t take a scientist to figure out you did something. Did you fuck that redhead at the party last night? And now he’s pissed, right, because he thought you had plans?”

“What redhead?” I ask distractedly, tensing up as Brendon picks up his bag, motioning towards the door as William asks him something.

“The one who spent the entire night trying to get into your pants? You spent, like, twenty minutes talking to her at one point. You don’t remember? Honest to god?”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.” I might have talked to some girl at some point, but what she looked like, if she was flirting, I have no recollection of.

Just as Brendon is at the door, he looks towards our table. It’s just a brief glance, but our eyes meet, and something heavy seems to set in his posture, his shoulders slumping down. And that’s not anger. That’s sadness.

He’s gone in the next second.

“Fuck,” I breathe out.

Spencer clears his throat. “Told you. I said nothing good could come of that. But hey, if it’s over, it’s over. It’s not like it matters.”

“You know, as a guy who can’t even keep his six month old marriage together, I’d refrain from commenting,” I tell him flatly, and he gives me a glare but shuts up. And it’s not _over_ , not that there is an ‘it’ to be over, but it is so not over.

Or maybe it is.

We both brood by our table until Pete comes to the doorway of the breakfast room to inform us that the bus is out front and that there are some fans waiting to get autographs. “Great,” I grumble, though Spencer seems to brighten up. He likes meeting the fans. Joe too, only for his ego, but Spencer likes people, even if he’s been an anti-social fucker all year. He likes people who aren’t us.

When we’re finally back on the bus, the fans standing outside and waving goodbyes eagerly, Pete does the head count as Zack pulls off the curb. “Where’s Brendon?” he asks.

I flinch and instantly scan the lounge. I knew it. I mean no, I didn’t know it, but I should have known it. Brendon’s taken off, is gone, vanished, got freaked out, and it was just his name, the fucker, hitch-hiking on the side of the highway with a sign that says ‘anywhere’, that cunt, that fucking –

“In his bunk. Poor thing didn’t get any sleep last night!” William explains sympathetically, lowering his voice and adding, “We should keep quiet. Let him rest.”

Oh.

“Bouts of insomnia going around,” Pete notes, eyes lingering on me for a split-second. I stare at him in wonder. What’s that supposed to mean? “I’ll go check up on him, see if he needs anything.”

“Just let him sleep, Pete,” I mutter tiredly. Joe and Andy have settled to playing cards, and Brent is engrossed in a book – the first one he’s probably ever picked up. The bus is filled with drowsy, warm air, and no one has the energy to talk much. It’s that part of the tour when it’s not exciting to be on the road anymore, and it’s not close to the finish line either, and we all just want to lie in bed for a day or two.

If Brendon’s happily dozed off, not bothering his mind with mundane things like non-fights, then I should do the same. I’ve got a bed on this bus, unlike the rest of them. I’m the king and they’re the court full of bitter noblemen and scheming concubines, but who’s the jester and who’s really pulling the strings?

“Oh, you guys, I think I figured out how to drink through my nose!” William declares.

Okay. So William’s the jester.

Instead of sticking around to watch William splash Coke all over his shirt, which is the only way _that_ can end up, I tell the guys that I’ll try and get some rest. It’s a long drive to Denver, nine hours at least, and I can catch up on some shuteye.

I walk straight through the bunk area, not letting myself consider pausing there, entering my nest at the back. I tiredly begin to unbutton my shirt when I realise that Brendon is sitting on my bed. He appears to have made himself comfortable, shoes on the floor, feet resting on the covers as he sits with his back against the wall. The dirty back window of the bus is showing the road over his shoulder, white lines on the asphalt disappearing into the distance. He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t bark for him to get the fuck out.

My hands drop from my collar. “Did you want something?”

I count the seconds flying by before he says, “When I was growing up, Matt got called Urie by the other kids. He was older and, I don’t know. Kids called him that. So you can’t call me Urie, because that’s not me.”

He shifts uncomfortably, his hands restlessly twisting in his lap. I feel anger pouring out of me and I nod. “Alright.” When he remains silent, I say, “I switched to Ryan when I was eight. One day realised didn’t want to share my father’s name. Up until then, people actually called me George. It was a good name because of The Beatles, but I felt like a copycat. Besides, Ringo’s the best.”

“I like George,” he says, briefly glancing at me, and I don’t know if he’s talking about Harrison or me.

“He’s alright,” I shrug, still not sure who we’re referring to. I move to sit on the bed, and since he doesn’t shift or object, I sit next to him, pressing my back against the wall as we face the door to my nest. I could let him know that he will not get away with behaviour like that, that I’m not the forgive-and-forget type of person. He’s come back to me, trying to reconcile, and I could turn it against him easily, and that’s exactly what I’d normally do but, on this morning, I am too tired to.

I’ve never really looked at the back lounge from this perspective before – I usually just sleep here or read a book lying down, sit on the edge and play guitar. There are windows on three walls – the two small ones at the sides and the big one behind our backs. Usually I pull the curtains over it so that no one can see inside and I can’t see the highway we’re driving along. The nest is chaotic since I’ve mostly dumped my suitcases in it, and considering the bed is the only piece of furniture in it, the floor and bed both are being used as dumping grounds. It’s simplistic, claustrophobic and cluttered, and one of the rare places that has felt like a sanctuary to me.

“What was Matt like?” I ask quietly, staring at his bare toes next to my shoes. I don’t look at him – eye contact could scare him off. The silence stretches and stretches, but I wait it out.

“Funny,” he says at last. “Smart. Everyone loved him. But he picked on me a lot. I was always just really tiny in size and he was a lot older, and then he could easily pick me up and I couldn’t fight him off. We just- We never saw eye to eye on much. And then I had to live up to him, but I never really could, and it was like I disappointed him too.”

“Sharing blood doesn’t make people compatible, does it?” I ask, knowing the answer too well myself. Brendon makes an agreeing sound. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Fifteen,” he says instantly, not having to think about it. When he dropped off the map. I don’t ask him to explain why he didn’t see his big brother during the second half of his teenage years at all.

“It’s a shame you never got to know what became of the other,” I offer, trying to determine what it is he is hung up about. It could be love, but it’s hard to love someone who is gone and, from what Brendon told me, it doesn’t sound like they had much of a personal connection, anyway.

“I wouldn’t have had anything to tell him. I mean, what am I? A roadie for a rock band?”

“Not just _some_ rock band, but The Followers. We’ve been number one on Billboard for five weeks now. Five.”

“I doubt he would’ve cared just how ridiculously famous you are. William knew I was out of a job, out of an apartment since I got evicted, and he got this job for me and saved my ass. Jobless and homeless. Matt would have been less than impressed with that,” he notes sourly, but quietly adds, “Still. I’ll never know, will I?”

“You won’t. That’d keep anyone up at night.” And the finality of it. Even if you had no plans to get in touch, the possibility was always there. You could pick up the phone, you could meet up. But death puts an end to all of that. And I certainly would not expect Spencer to die when he’s young.

“When I heard, he’d been dead for a month. I wouldn’t have attended the funeral, anyway, but I – He’d been in the ground for who knows how long before I knew, and I just panicked, took the first bus back home, thinking I had to see the grave, had to stand there with my own two feet. That’s why I missed my flight to Nashville. Got to the state line and got out of the bus. Couldn’t do it. Matt’s dead and I can’t bring myself to...”

“Well, he’s not going anywhere. You can visit his grave some other time, you know?”

From the corner of my eye, I see him turning his head to look at me. He is giving me a crooked smile. “That’s not necessarily comforting, Ross.”

“Yeah. I’m not very good at that,” I admit truthfully. When our eyes meet, he breaks into a grin. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says with a quick shake of the head before he leans in and captures my lips before I can react. The kiss is soft and sweet, nothing compared to the dirty and wanton making out from only a few hours before. It’s like a wave of cooling water washing over me, calming me down.

“You wanna sleep?” I offer when the kiss breaks. I ask without thinking, and I get a split second to worry about his reaction, but he just nods like he wanted to do just that, anyway.

He lies down, and I busy myself untying the laces of my shoes, kicking them off. I wordlessly move to lie down next to him on top of the covers, and he looks smaller somehow, bearing signs of that kid his big brother used to tease the hell out of. I’m unsure of what to do, but he easily takes my arm and wraps it around his waist as he settles down, his back pressing against me. It’s surprisingly easy to relax into, letting my face bury itself in the crook of his neck and breathe him in. He’s warm and somehow shaped just right, making me want to pull him to me and just feel him pressed against me.

The bus hums around us, the guys’ voices distant like they are useless attempts from another world to penetrate the little bubble we’re in. It feels alright now that he’s here with me – the non-fight, the anger and anguish fading away.

He whispers, “I didn’t mean to, you know. Lash out like that this morning. I just don’t like people playing games with me or –”

“I wasn’t.”

He sighs – I feel his chest expanding as he pulls in air. “Well, you pretended not to know something you knew.”

“William just mentioned it one time. Probably didn’t even mean to, he was mostly talking to himself. You know what he’s like,” I find myself lying, not sure why I don’t just tell him it was Audrey. I don’t want him to freak out and pull away. With him, it’s like trying to approach a deer without frightening it off: practically impossible.

But for some reason, today he willingly sat here waiting for me to come and pull the trigger. Who knows if I hit the target. I think I might have. In any case, he’s lain down in surrender. He wants to lie here in my arms. We’re just sleeping. That’s all.

“Yeah, I know what Bill’s like,” he admits after a while.

I feel the bus slowing down and Brent’s voice asking why we’re stopping, Zack calling back that it’s a train crossing and we’re stuck waiting. As for the world that starts at the door of the back lounge, Brendon’s breaths are evening out, and my arm curls around his waist tighter, my hand on his lower stomach.

I distinctively hear Pete’s voice yelling, “Zack, you are respecting the flashing red lights and waiting! Don’t you dare cross and endanger this band!”

I chuckle without meaning to, picturing Zack impatiently drumming the wheel when no train is in sight, and Pete’s eyes popping out. Brendon shifts slightly, brushing against me as we’re glued together. I have a hard time remembering what exactly our casual sex pact included.

“He knows, you know.”

“Come again?” I ask tiredly.

“Pete. He knows what we’re doing.”

I freeze up, and Brendon turns around to face me. I study his face, trying to catch up. “How do you- What –” I swallow hard. “Tell me.”

“He just came up to me and called me out on it. I mean, I said he was insane, but he _knew_.”

“When did this happen? This morning?”

Brendon’s eyes seem to focus on my throat. “Dallas.” Just as I’m about to snap about that having been a few states back, Brendon says, “Oh, fuck you, you’ve known my name for who knows how long. I’m telling you now, aren’t I? I mean, I figured that Spencer must have told him, though he said Spencer hadn’t.”

“No. No, Spencer wouldn’t tell.” Not when I have something to blackmail him with.

“Well, he knows. And he’s not gonna tell anyone, said he doesn’t care if you’re fucking me, but...” He seems to hesitate, and I wait for the punch line. “He wanted to... I mean, like to... recruit me? What I mean is – he basically said my job description now entails keeping you on this tour and I told him how messed up that was but he –”

He sounds nervous and nearly panicked, so I cut him off. “Okay. I get the idea.”

“I said yes to get him off my back, you know? I can’t force you into anything because you can’t make people into something they’re not.”

It sounds like Pete, trying to get to me through someone else. But how does he know? That’s what terrifies the most, even if I know that Pete will die with that secret if he has to. Pete, who I don’t trust to care for me personally, would do anything for the band. Spencer will deal because he has to, because I’ve got one on him, whereas Pete is trying to scheme behind my back, turn it into a weapon.

“It’s fucked up how this band works,” Brendon adds quietly. “Everyone just lies and goes behind each other’s backs.”

I can’t exactly rush into the lounge and pull Pete aside, so I relax back into the mattress, still holding Brendon close to me, even if my mind is racing. Pete knows. I know that I work for him, but he also works for me. And I know what Spencer would say, that it’s the beginning of the end, that clearly Brendon and I aren’t being subtle when we’re the only ones missing all the time. Even now, all someone needs to do is look into Brendon’s empty bunk to realise that he’s back here with me. And as Pete shows his true nature once more, I’m not sure how much I care about what he thinks of me. Pete has never really liked me, anyway. It doesn’t hit home the way it did with Spencer.

“I’m sorry,” Brendon whispers.

“What for?”

“I don’t know,” he laughs. “I just feel like I should apologise.”

“Don’t,” I tell him. I needed to be reminded that I can’t trust them. “Just sleep,” I tell him quietly, and he nods, pressing closer to me. I always thought that if the situation ever got worse, I’d opt out. But Pete knows, and instead of pushing Brendon out of my bed, I try to figure out what do with Pete that will protect the status quo. I like how things are right now.

I know I won’t be able to sleep at all today. Brendon’s hiding his face in my chest, one of his arms around me and pulling me closer. I breathe in his hair that smells like hotel shampoo, hoping his dreams will be free of ghosts of people he hasn’t known for years because blood isn’t family. I don’t know what is, but it certainly isn’t that. And it’s not this band.

The bus jerks forward slightly. Brendon curls into me more as the bus drives over the tracks. I keep my eyes on the closed door that conceals us for now, wondering how long we’ll manage to keep it that way.


	5. Immortality

We get to Denver just as the sun is setting in the horizon, the bus coming to a stop outside the Cosmopolitan Hotel. We cram into the lounge and wait for permission to go. Brent’s got pillow imprints on his cheek and Joe’s eyes are unfocused and sleepy as Pete goes to get the hotel keys and ask where Zack can park the bus. I lean into the lounge couch, feeling like a zombie.

Andy’s sudden burst of laughter attracts the attention of the entire crew, and he keeps peering outside one of the window. “Dude, there are two girls outside with a sign that says ‘The Trohman Twins’,” he grins, and Joe instantly perks up slightly.

“Oh, that’s gonna be Kirsten and Kirstin,” Joe grins. “Always on time! Amazing girls! There’s a party we’re going to. Anyone coming?”

Brent and Andy instantly volunteer, which is hardly surprising. What is a surprise, however, is Brendon saying, “Sure, I’ll go.” He’s leaning against the bunk area door, his hair tousled and his clothes wrinkled from sleeping in them.

I focus on my bitten and sharp-edged nails, studying them quietly. William instantly asks, “Yeah? Because I’ll go if you go.”

Brendon fell asleep before we even reached Lincoln. I listened to him breathing for a while, losing track of time. He sighs in his sleep sometimes – these peaceful, deep sighs, and then he shifts slightly. I managed to untangle myself a hundred miles before the state line, grabbing a book and moving to the lounge where the guys who hadn’t moved onto the bunks were dozing off.

He looks well-rested now, soft and warm. I think back to the party in Cleveland, him doing coke and ending up in a corner with some guy all over him. I smirk to myself a little. It’s amazing how many different sides he has to him.

“Far out, man. Anyone else?” Joe asks, and I shake my head. I’m going on my forty-sixth hour of being awake, and we’re outside a hotel and don’t have a show tonight. I know what my plans are.

When Pete comes back, handing us all our room keys, we finally get permission to leave. I keep waiting for some kind of an indication that shows Pete knows, a knowing look or a smirk, his eyes piercing through my skin in disgust, the way Spencer’s did at first. There’s nothing there. It’s like Pete’s made out of stone, and it’s unnerving beyond belief.

What else does he know?

I’ve stuffed semi-clean clothes into a small suitcase, gripping onto the handle as we pour out of the bus. Kirstin and Kirsten instantly rush over, giving Joe a hero’s welcome. I head straight for the revolving hotel doors as Joe calls out that the party people should be waiting outside in half an hour. We cause a commotion in the lobby – or not us, the tired band and crew, but the few kids that appear out of nowhere, waving LPs and posters around like maniacs when Pete said that the coast was clear.

Pete groans, “These two again, for god’s sake.”

I hear my name called out several times with slurs of, “I’m your biggest fan! Ryan! Spencer! I love you guys! Brent! BRENT! Remember me?!”

“Hi, Walter,” Brent says with a wave that says ‘I don’t give a shit’.

“Sisky! But you remembered! Oh god, you _remembered_!”

I promptly ignore the boy and his thankfully more silent friend, impatiently pressing the elevator button up as Pete and Zack step in to kindly ask the kids to go. When the elevator doors open, my band rushes in first, clearly desperate to get away from the stalkers. There’s no room for me, Joe saying, “Sorry!” as Kirsten and Kirstin press to his sides, Spencer shrugging apologetically.

“Thanks, you guys,” I remark, giving them the middle finger as the doors slide shut.

Zack and hotel security are in the process of kicking out the fans, and the kids are now putting up resistance and persistently calling my name, and I stab at the arrow up until I hear another soft ‘bing’. I look at the hotel key in my hand – 532.

When I step inside, someone follows me. I don’t realise it’s Brendon until the doors close and the sound of the commotion fades, leaving us two in the relative quiet of the confined space. “Which floor you on?” he asks as he presses for the fourth floor.

“Fifth,” I say blankly, and he presses it for me, smiling with his eyes. I smile back tiredly.

“Didn’t you sleep at all?” he asks after a pause, and I shrug and then shake my head.

“Am about to.”

“You’re not coming to the party? I thought it’d be a nice change.”

“No.”

Too tired to. Besides, it’s better this way. He should go and fuck someone, throw the rest of them off the scent. It’s not like he shouldn’t fuck. He should. He’s goddamn good at it.

The doors open to the fourth floor. He looks hesitant, stepping out slowly, and I lean back against the elevator wall, willing myself not to collapse right there. I’m too tired to say a simple ‘bye’ or ‘have fun’.

Just as the doors begin to close, Brendon pushes between them and holds them open. “Hey, what’s your room number?”

I dangle the key tiredly so he can see the number engraved on the key ring.

He grins. “Got it.”

I smirk at him, though it’s probably only half a smirk. Exhaustion is setting heavy in my limbs.

He steps back, and we keep eye contact as the doors close. He mouths ‘bye’ at the last second, and there’s something incredibly free about him in that one blink of an eye, the capability to do as he pleases, a youthful power to walk into any room and make it his.

I’ve never met anyone like him.

The door closes.

My hotel room is beige and brown with an orangey carpet. It hasn’t got several rooms, lounge and bedroom, like the nicer hotels we’ve stayed at, but it’s still spacious with an extremely promising looking bed. I go and pull curtains to block out the setting sun, switching the TV on and finally sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress bounce. I feel dirty and sweaty and tired. I absently pull at the collar of my shirt and take a whiff of myself: Brendon, sweat and sex.

As much as I’d want to go to sleep, I can’t. I wait for half an hour or so, wanting to make sure that those of our crew who wanted to go out have long gone. Only then do I call reception and ask which room Pete Wentz is staying in. I don’t ask for Pete Wentz because even he needs a codename these days. I’m Angel Eyes, still, though honestly my eyes are just bland. I should change it, come up with something more sincere. George Urie. Now there’s a name they’d never figure out was actually me.

Pete goes by Barbi Benton. It’s the kind of name I’d have expected Joe or Brent to pick out, but if Pete’s not trying to hide his Playboy addiction, then good for him.

Turns out that Barbi Benton is staying in 531. Right opposite me.

It takes a moment for Pete to open the door, and when he does, he looks surprised, telling me to come in and excusing himself as he’s on the phone. He’s obviously planning to catch up some sleep – or so I think at first because he’s stripped down to boxers and a tank top – but then I notice the massive amounts of paperwork spread over his bed. He goes back to the phone on the desk, continuing the conversation and sucking on a cigarette. He hums and nods, saying ‘yes, of course’ and ‘that’s the plan’. I look at the papers, the scribbled notes – phone numbers, addresses, interview times, merchandise orders, budget estimates, all with small markings in a tiny, miniscule scrawl.

Pete has practically single-handedly organised this tour, and when we go to bed, he’s still working.

When Pete finally ends the call, I ask, “The label?”

“My mother.”

Huh. That’s even worse.

“So what can I do for you?” he asks, walking over and organising his papers into a pile. It seems like he sees order where I only see chaos.

I take a step back, feeling the silence land on us. There’s a lump in my throat, and I try to focus on anger because that’s easier than the uncertainty. “I’ve been... I’ve been sleeping with Brendon.”

He slows down – doesn’t freeze, but slows down – and turns to me, expression blank. Then realisation seems to hit him. “Ah. So he told you.”

If he had faked ignorance, I would have been less angry than what I feel now. He’s playing me. Fuck. And he’s succeeding. “Yeah, he told me,” I note angrily.

Pete sighs dramatically. “I was gonna give him a bonus for it, you know. It’s not like I was being unreasonable!” He shakes his head and adds, “Well, if he thinks he doesn’t need the money, then whatever.”

“How much?”

“Three hundred bucks.”

We make three hundred bucks approximately every five hours with the album and ticket sales. God, Pete’s cheap.

“That’s it? No wonder he told me,” I note sarcastically, though of course he was going to tell me, whether it be three hundred or three thousand. He was going to tell me.

Pete shrugs like it’s not that big of a deal. “You want a drink?” he offers instead.

At this point of this disaster, I need ten drinks, so I nod. Pete goes to his bag, packing his paperwork and getting out a half-finished bottle of Jack as he tells me that it’s so much cheaper than going for the hotel’s mini-bottles. Yeah, no shit. He’s already threatened Joe with less interviews if he doesn’t stop emptying the mini-fridges because Pete doesn’t want to be paying for that.

Pete finds paper cups in the bathroom and pours us drinks. He motions me to sit down on his bed so I do. He makes himself comfortable on a chair, taking a sip, nose scrunching as he swallows some whisky down. “So,” he says at long last, “I think we should talk about Europe.”

I glare at him. “I think we should talk about the gaping holes of mistrust in this manager-musician relationship and how you try to go behind my damn back to –”

“Make you happy,” he says before I can finish. I scoff because that’s a laugh. Does he think I’m happy right now? He leans forward conspiratorially. “Let me tell you where The Followers is at right now, and you better listen to me. You are half an inch away from _it_.”

“It?”

“Immortality!” he enthuses, his eyes suddenly lighting up. “This album is your big break and we need to use the momentum to push you guys into superstardom! You’re everywhere – nighttime radio, music magazines, doing a huge North American tour, and you need to keep pushing! You do know that Led Zep had their own airplane for their last tour, right? _You_ can have that. I swear, you work with me here, I can give you guys all of it: limousine rides, free champagne, fuck, anything! I can get you out of that bus and up into the air, but you need to stop swimming upstream and work with me! I can’t get this band there if you don’t let me!”

“But I don’t want that!” I argue, causing him to snort.

“You think you don’t. Once you have it, you won’t be able to picture your life without it. We need to go to Europe now when the kids are all dying to follow The Followers! Make sure that the other side of the Atlantic is eating out of your hands! One tour, Ryan, and I promise that the world is yours! It’s the last thing standing between being a shooting star and being the new sun of rock ‘n roll!”

I can’t take it in, can’t wrap my head around it. I nervously drink all of the whisky in one go. A crowd of twenty-thousand people. Body guards. Airplanes. Photographers at our tails.

Immortality. Is that worth fighting for?

Pete sighs and leans back in his chair. “What will it take? Brendon?”

I glance at him briefly, feeling the hairs at the back of my neck prick up. “Meaning?”

He shrugs. “You want Brendon there? Consider it done. I can get him on that tour and you know what? He won’t answer to Brent, won’t have to set up the gear, he won’t be a roadie. He’ll just hang around, and he can dedicate every second of his time to you. Because if that’s what it takes, then I can make it happen.”

“When did you become God?” I ask him quietly, feeling my chest expand at the thought. Brendon in Europe. It didn’t occur to me, probably not to any of us – Brendon is still Simon’s replacement, and Simon’s leg will have healed by November or whenever this European tour is meant to get going. Brendon’s a part of the crew on this tour, and after that he is sinking into oblivion. We’ve had plenty of crew guys, temps and techs, who have come and gone. I don’t think the rest of the band is expecting Brendon to stick around after _Jackie_ , and I doubt they’ll miss him.

Pete shrugs easily, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. Is Brendon all it takes?

Well, I’m not this easy. He can’t throw Brendon into the mix and make the thought of a European tour suddenly seem plausible.

And if the tour doesn’t happen, then in less than three weeks, it’s over. Brendon will go to San Francisco and I will be in Los Angeles with Jac, and we will no longer have any good reason to see each other. San Francisco is full of men, and LA is full of women.

Whereas if we go to Europe and he comes along...

“I’ve been thinking,” Pete says in his business tone of voice. “I’ll give him some kind of a nominal job, like make him my assistant. You think Joe or Brent will notice he’s not actually doing anything? Highly unlikely,” he notes with a scoff.

I stare at him. “Do you spend hours figuring this shit out or do you make it up as you go?”

“I wing it,” he grins, going back to his drink.

Brendon might want to go to Europe. He’s never been. He might like that.

“Think about it,” Pete says eventually.

“Sure. I’ll think about it,” I grant him eventually, and he grins at me like I’m exactly where he wants me.

* * *

When someone knocks on my door in the middle of the night, it can be one of three things: a groupie, a stalker or a fan. All three are different things, and they all want to sleep with me.

I ignore the knocking the best I can, groaning and placing a pillow to cover my head. I’ve been asleep for hours, but I’m not done yet. It’s still the middle of the night, and I haven’t slept in days. No, I have plans, important plans to sleep until soundcheck tomorrow. God, if only I could do that...

The knocking intensifies. For fuck’s sake. I lift the pillow and shout “GO AWAY!” before collapsing back onto the mattress.

“No!” comes a persistent reply, and I stir awake slightly. Oh.

A warm buzz sets in my stomach as I roll out of bed clumsily, dragging the sheet with me and wrapping it around my waist to cover myself up. Sleep is still clouding my mind as I fumble with the lock, managing to get it open. The lights of the corridor hit my eyes, and I squint slightly.

Brendon stands in the corridor, a pleased smile on his lips. His hair is a mess and his posture slightly wobbly. “Heeeello,” he purrs, breaking into a grin as his eyes roam over my form.

I roll my eyes and lean against the doorframe. “Well, someone’s drunk.”

“No!” he denies, but then grins, clearly pleased with himself. “You’re wearing a sheet. I like it. The sheet thing.”

God, he’s an idiot. I quickly glance to the corridor, checking both directions to make sure there’s no one there. “Where are the others?”

Joe’s room is right next to mine – I would’ve heard him coming back because he never returns alone and he is never quiet when he fucks.

“That’s... that’s a good question. I lost them. I think I lost them?” he asks himself now, brows furrowing in confusion. Joe and his friends and their stupid parties.

“How did you get back to the hotel?”

“Oh! We got a ride!” he recalls, expression brightening up. “And then, yeah, I think they’re in Andy’s room downstairs, but I sneaked out and came here because I just- I don’t remember anymore, but now I really, _really_ want to suck you off.” He licks his lips and steps closer. “And you’re only wrapped up in a sheet. Fuck. Fuck, are you trying to seduce me?”

“I clearly don’t have to.”

“’S true,” he nods. “I’m easy.”

“You’re drunk and need to sleep it off.”

He shakes his head vigorously. “I could suck cock unconscious. Trust me.”

I can’t stop the laughter that erupts from my throat. He looks pleased, and fuck, he’s a charming drunk. “Get in before someone sees you,” I tell him, and he smiles brightly, snaking in when I hold the door open for him.

He’s on me before I’ve even turned around, starving hands on my bare skin and a moan escaping deep from his chest. Our lips crash together. He tastes like alcohol, a mix of vodka and beer. He instantly pulls the sheet off me, right there next to the door.

“Fuck,” I groan, finding it hard to breathe when he presses against me, the denim of his jeans rough against my legs. He is fully dressed and I’ve got nothing on me. My mind is clouded by the control it gives him. His hands run up and down my naked form as we stumble towards the bed. I choke on my breath when he grabs my ass with no shame whatsoever, mouth hungrily attacking my neck. He’s also a horny drunk.

We crash on the bed with me beneath him, and he groans, hands in my hair as he pulls me closer to deepen the messy kisses. God, his hands on me, his stupid hands feel so –

I flip us over and pull his Jack Daniels t-shirt up, taking bites at his chest, licking his stomach, sucking on his nipples, and fuck, _fuck_. I practically tear the shirt off him and throw it away.

“You sore?” I ask in between kisses, partly hoping he is. God, that’d make him so much more sensitive when I fuck him.

“Yeah,” he admits, a sigh against my lips. “But I like it.”

I lose my breath instantly. Fuck, how does he manage that?

I try to unzip him in the dark, wanting him to be naked too because I feel too self-aware, even if he’s too drunk to notice.

Just as my hand awkwardly reaches into his pants, finding his hard cock – god, he’s so hard, shit – someone knocks on my door. The kiss breaks, and we pant into each other’s mouths in the dark. I can only see Brendon’s outline in the slight moonlight coming in through the blinds.

“Who’s that?” he asks me, trying to catch his breath. “Is it morning?”

“What? No, it –” I sigh and shake my head at his drunken incomprehension. “Maybe they’ll go away,” I offer hopefully, leaning down to press a needy kiss to his lips. His tongue pushes into my mouth forcefully.

Someone keeps knocking. I pull back with a wet pop and curse. Do I really need to send groupies on their way so that I can have my cock sucked? And since when did I start living in Opposite Land?

I groan as I get off the bed, locating boxers on the floor and grabbing a t-shirt, pulling it over my head. I’m still fucking hard. If it’s those two stalker kids that have followed us from town to town, I will call Zack’s room and have him beat those bastards up. I don’t care if they adore me.

I find the light switch and flick it, letting the yellow glow of the lamps illuminate the room. Brendon is lying on the bed, zipper down and shirtless. He mutters, “I’m just gonna get these off, gonna take ‘em off,” trying to inch his jeans down.

“Quiet,” I tell him, and his eyes widen and then he nods, comically serious. When I get to the door, I call out, “Who is it?”

“Joe.”

Oh. Not a groupie.

I look over my shoulder to the bed that’s not in direct view. I take a quick look at myself from the mirror next to me, trying to flatten my hair since Brendon loves messing it up. My lips are slightly swollen. There’s a bulge in my boxers. Goddammit.

“Can’t it wait until morning?” I call out hopefully. Brendon is in my hotel room, drunk and mostly naked. Not a good time for Joe to pay a visit.

“Ryan, open up!” Joe’s voice says impatiently, and I mutter silent curses as I take another look at Brendon, whose jeans are down to his ankles. He presses his finger against his lips, indicating that he’ll be quiet.

I unlock the door reluctantly and open it the little necessary, making sure I block the way in. Joe stands in the corridor, his big hair all over the place and his shirt hanging on him unbuttoned.

“What’s up?” I ask, making sure I sound slightly annoyed. It’s in the middle of the night, after all, and he and I have not gotten up for nocturnal chats since ’72. We used to, though. We’d talk until morning, but those were different people entirely.

He asks, “You got extra condoms?”

Oh.

“Yeah, sure,” I nod, relieved that’s all he wants. “How many?”

“Say about... ten?” He counts with his fingers. Girls or rounds or what? Don’t know.

“Uh huh,” I grant, feeling on edge. Don’t want him here when Brendon’s in the room. “Just give me a sec.” I close the door and hurry to my suitcase, rummaging through it in search of condoms. I find three opened bottles of lube, one of which is definitely Brendon’s. Not what I need right now.

At the bottom is an opened back of Trojans, and I instantly fish it out. Brendon says, “And done!” I look up to see that he’s managed to fully undress himself. He’s clearly proud of himself as he lies on the bed blissfully, naked and hard.

“Joe’s out there, so just –”

“Oh!” he gasps, pursing his lips and nodding again.

I hurry back to the door. I pause for a second before opening it, taking in a calming breath.

Joe is waiting impatiently on the other side, and I hand him the pack. “Have a good –”

“Don’t you have the extra large ones?” he asks me, sounding annoyed.

I keep myself wedged between the door and the wall. “What am I? The fucking pharmacy?”

“I’m just saying,” he grumbles.

I hear high-pitched laughter, and I lean forward slightly to see to the end of the corridor where Kirsten and Kirstin are walking towards us and supporting each other. Oh god, Brendon and I will have to listen to Joe’s threesome? Fantastic. Just great.

I have to tell Pete to make sure my room is far away from the rests’ when we tour Europe.

I rush out, “Seems like you’ve got your hands full, so I’ll just –”

“Do you have someone in there?”

I flinch. “No.”

Suspicion has taken over his features, his voice slightly alarmed. “I thought you were talking to someone.”

“Just myself. Inner monologue.”

Joe’s eyes thin as he stares at me. He gives me the once-over, stare scrutinising. I clear my throat nervously and bring the door even closer to me.

“I...” He pauses. Thank god just the mere sight of him has killed my erection, otherwise he’d think I want to screw him. “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

“No. I was sleeping.”

He keeps staring, eyes flickering over my shoulder. He focuses on me and half-smiles. “You really need to get laid. I know you like Jac and all, but tour rules, man.”

“Girlfriends don’t exist, I know.” Everyone knows that rule. It’s the most fundamental rule there is and one I abide by religiously. Would abide by right now if he’d fuck off.

“Well, thanks for the –” Joe begins, stopping when a sudden thump echoes from behind me. I flinch without meaning to, freezing up entirely, my heart jumping to my throat as my ears catch the quiet ‘ow’ coming from behind my back. Joe arches an eyebrow at me.

“The TV,” I explain.

“Said you were sleeping.”

“With the TV on. I need background noise.”

“Right,” he nods. “Thanks.” He lifts the Trojans appreciatively, clutching the packet.

“Sure thing.”

He backs away and notes, “Nice t-shirt.”

“Uh huh. Goodnight,” I say again and quickly close the door. I exhale in relief once I have the door between myself and my guitarist. I hear the girls’ voices coming closer, one of them giggling.

Brendon is on the floor by the bed, blinking at the ceiling uncertainly. “What are you doing?” I ask pointedly when I walk over.

“The bed moved.” His face scrunches up. “I don’t think I feel good.”

Great.

Brendon manages to get up and even finds the bathroom by himself. I sit on the edge of my bed and sigh, now hearing Joe, Kirsten and Kirstin starting their party on the other side of the wall. Puking sounds carry to my ears from the bathroom.

I sigh and crash against the mattress.

One of these nights.

* * *

“I’m honestly really sorry,” Brendon says for the hundredth time. “I –”

“It’s okay. I told you that Spencer’s thrown up on me once, Brent vomited in my suitcase on our first tour and Joe once puked all over my guitar on stage,” I tell him patiently. Considering how familiar I am with my bandmates’ bodily fluids, you’d think I’m fucking them and not the roadie.

“It’s just embarrassing,” Brendon mumbles as he goes back to replacing the broken string of Brent’s red bass. The support band is on stage and their music echoes to the dressing room. The other guys are still doing interviews, but mine was short because I kept it short.

“I’ve seen worse things,” I tell him, smirking from across the room. My hair is goddamn annoying and all over the place, and I’m trying to fix it but my reflection tells me I’m failing. Maybe I should just go with one of Jac’s hats.

“At least I didn’t scare you off, I guess,” he concludes, now tuning the instrument. He tunes by ear, concentrating, and then he starts playing for the hell of it. It wasn’t particularly scarring to tell him to get dressed and then send him off to his room. I’ve kicked out girls in the middle of sex just because I no longer felt like having it.

The dressing room door opens. The rest of my band sans Joe pours in, and Brent notes, “Don’t break it now.”

“Yeah, no. Sorry,” Brendon mumbles, offering the bass to Brent, who takes it lovingly.

Brendon shifts to give Spencer room on the couch with him, and Spencer looks slightly self-conscious but sits down anyway. Brent grabs a chair and begins to fiddle with the bass, humming quietly to warm up his voice. Brent does backup vocals, so it’s not uncalled for, but it’s managing to tick me off, anyway.

“Brent,” I interrupt harshly after two-minutes, catching his attention. “Do you have to?”

“I’ll be needing my voice tonight.”

“What for?” I mutter under my breath.

“Hey, I sing out there too!” he objects.

“If you count a few choruses.”

He glares at me, and I glare back through the mirror. “Why do you have to belittle the rest of us all the time?” he snaps angrily. “There are more people in this band than you, you know, so –”

“Oh, really? Because your nagging led me to the illusion I was by myself.”

“Screw –”

“Do you have to?” Spencer now cuts in, sounding tired. I feel vaguely like Brent and I are the parents fighting in front of the kids. Brendon is trying not to notice. I forgot he was in the room and feel vaguely embarrassed. I’m not like this. It’s just- Brent’s an asshole. He is. He fucks my girlfriend and makes jokes behind my back about me fucking Brendon, so do I have a single good reason to be nice to the guy?

Brent shoots me a glare and goes back to vocal warm ups, which I know I should be doing too. But I’ll be fine. I do these shows nightly, I’ve got it in the bag. Really, no big deal. Could do it in my sleep.

Pete shows up when we hear the support band finishing off, and Brendon instantly hurries off to set up our gear with the rest of the roadies. Pete starts talking about his European plans now that he has my consent, or well, I’m not completely against the idea. Spencer is complaining about the setlist, and Brent is still jamming by himself and singing and looking at me with a smirk. God, he thinks he’s so mighty just because he’s fucking Jac. Been there, done that, was nothing extraordinary.

Speaking of sex, I could do with a pre-show blowjob right now. “Ryan, no, no, wait!” Pete says the second I try to leave, and I grudgingly sit by the dressing table. “I’ve been thinking about where we should record the live album. Paris has class. You think Paris?”

“I thought Berlin,” Brent interrupts.

Spencer frowns. “Why would we do Berlin? ‘The Followers, live in Berlin’? That has zero glory.”

“I thought London,” I note, not that I’ve actually given a live album much thought because I object to the entire idea. It feels even more like soul robbery when the songs are live and not fine-tuned in a studio.

“We’ll vote!” Pete offers. “A democratic vote! We’ll do that in the meeting.”

“What meeting?” I ask, still annoyed that I’m being held up when I could be with Brendon somewhere. If we do Europe, I am definitely taking Pete up on his offer: Brendon for me only, all the time.

“Joe wants to have a meeting before the show,” Spencer informs tiredly. Great. I know Joe’s meetings – it’s either going to be demands for more complimentary dressing room snacks or his choice of beer or, most likely, he will bitch about my nest and try to get it for himself. He can’t deny the fact that I’m the star of this band. I try denying it more than he does.

When someone wants to put you up on a pedestal, it’s useless telling them that you don’t want to be there. They’ve already made up their minds.

The roadies come back after having set up our gear, my eyes following Brendon and William who stay by the door. Zack looks around wonderingly. “Where’s Joe?”

Pete checks his wristwatch, and we all end up waiting for him to come and present his list of demands. He does this same thing five times a tour, Joe meetings where Joe talks and Joe demands and Joe bitches.

Joe finally decides to show up fifteen minutes before we’re due to get on stage. “Ah, everyone’s here!” he says brightly as he enters, and we all sit or stand up straighter. I rest my hands on my knees, fingers flexing and preparing for two hours of guitar playing.

Joe easily takes the floor, not even waiting for anyone to ask him to start the meeting. “So!” he says, addressing all of us. Andy clearly senses that this will take a while as he flops down to sit on the couch with Spencer. “I know that we, the band, and you, the crew, and then you Pete, have our problems. We’re not perfect, but I say –” He holds a dramatic pause and lifts his palms in front of his chest, “– show me a band that is. You know what I’m saying?”

“Sure,” Brent sighs, clearly bored. Glad I’m not the only one. The crowd is chanting for us now, on edge after the ‘one, two, three’ checks when they know that the band is going to come on stage any minute now.

“Some things we should let slide. Like, Brent, you know how you messed up the bridge part of _The Diplomat_ in Kansas City, right?” Joe asks, and I remember it clearly too, when Brent switched from bass to keyboards and had to take a good half a bridge to recall what he was supposed to be doing. Brent looks like he’s about to snap something back, but Joe cuts him off with, “But that’s okay! It’s not a big deal! I mean, that one time I slipped on stage and knocked myself out! Remember that? Or how Spencer once got into a fight with that one venue worker in Tallahassee on our first tour?”

Spencer laughs slightly. “They threw us out and refused to pay us.”

Brent chuckles, but I say, “Memory lane, I get it. So our perfection is in our imperfection, is that it, Joe? Because we kinda have a show to play.”

He looks at me for the first time since he walked in. The first time the entire day, actually.

“That’s not it. My point is that some things you can let slide, but some you can’t. So we’re having this meeting because everyone on this tour has the right to know what Ryan and Brendon are up to.”

Suddenly, Joe has all my attention. Pete looks alarmed and, over his shoulder, Brendon has frozen up. Spencer mutters a disbelieving, “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Andy asks, clearly confused and looking around.

“Spence actually supplied it there for us,” Joe smirks. “They’re fucking. As in _fucking_.”

I’m quick to stand up, feeling such hatred towards him that I feel like I could rip his heart out. “Where the hell do you get off saying such bullshit about me?!”

“Joe,” Brent laughs slightly, “I know we all _say_ they’re at it, but come on.”

“I’m not kidding. They disappear together all the time, always shut up when someone else walks into the room, they’re fucking glued to each other!” he rants, and my palms are sweating. My eyes locate Brendon, who remains by the door, not moving, not looking at anyone, and William is next to him, eyes wide as saucers and looking scandalised.

“That’s not proof, that’s paranoia! There’s nothing going on!” I retort.

“Then why was he in your room last night? Why was _he_ in your room in the middle of the night?!” he barks, now pointing at Brendon. When I open my mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, he turns to me and snaps, “No! I am done with your bullshit, Ross! You think I don’t know what you look like when you fuck? I’ve _seen_ you fuck. And you stood there with your sex hair, wearing Brendon’s t-shirt, the same shirt I saw on him just twenty minutes before! The one he wore all night! And I saw this glimpse in the mirror, I swear, I saw the bed and someone on it and I thought that no, no way, not Ryan, who I’ve known for years, not him, but you stood there and lied to my face like I was gonna believe it, all the time having the queer freak in your room so you could fuck the guy! And that I cannot let slide!”

A deafening silence lands in the room, disturbed only by the distant echo of the crowd.

“When you –” William’s voice starts. I’m breathing hard, my insides twisting together in a sickening burn. I’m being outed. “Is that where you vanished to last night?” William asks Brendon quietly. He sounds hurt. “All those nights?”

“I’d say it’s a safe bet,” Joe notes.

Brendon lifts his gaze, and our eyes meet. Fear. A paralysing fear in his eyes. I can’t breathe.

“ _Well?_ ” Brent now barks. “Aren’t you gonna say something?”

“What can he say?” Joe snaps. “Nothing! Turns out our frontman’s a faggot.”

“What did you just call me?” I ask quietly, my voice trembling with rage.

“You heard me! You’re going around frolicking with that obscene little pervert, and I can’t be in this band when something –”

“Does Jac know you’re fucking around with him?” Brent asks demandingly, which has got to be the most irrelevant question of all time because who cares what Jac thinks or knows or does? She is in no way connected to any of this.

“Is it actually true?” Andy now asks, sounding genuinely puzzled and baffled more than anything else.

I scoff. Deny, deny, deny. Joe was drunk. No one was in my room. For crying out loud, I have to get out of this one. I shake my head and shoot Joe a disgusted look. “Of course no –”

“It’s true,” Spencer says, and I stop short. He’s staring at his shoes, shoulders slumped as he sits on the couch, like he hopes it will swallow him whole. “I walked in on them once.”

A painful ache enters my chest. I stare at him in utter disbelief. Did he – How could he... Did he just –

“You knew?” Joe asks, and I’m not sure if he’s surprised to get ratification or that Spencer withheld information.

I stand where I am, mouth open, mind racing with explanations, anything, I could come up with some amazing lies to explain this away, but then Spencer, my best friend, confirmed it, is sitting there and now gives me a defeated and disappointed look, like he somehow thinks that this is what I need, an intervention, his sympathy, their rejections, their objections –

He thinks he’s well in his right to do this.

Everyone seems to realise at the same time that Joe wasn’t lying. The room bursts into life as everyone speaks over each other, yelling, arguing, demanding the truth, apart from Brendon who seems to fold in on himself, looking disbelieving and mouthing ‘fuck’ to himself, and William is interrogating him, a scandalised, “How could you not tell me?! I’m your best friend!” snapping out of his mouth while Pete stands still like it’s all over now, a dead expression on his face, he’s gone, he’s given up, and Joe and Brent are shooting more accusations at me, and Spencer’s slumped on the couch, head drooping low, and Zack just stares at us all like he is stuck in some kind of a nightmare.

“How can you do this to Jac?!” Brent barks furiously. “With _him_?!”

“I knew it!” Joe declares. “Fucking knew it, first time I saw you two off on your own, knew you were a fag just like him –”

“Okay!” I bark, just wanting them all to stop. Joe stops his slew of insults, catching his breath. “Okay, I’ve had sex with him. But you call me a fag one more time, Joe, and I _swear_ I’ll kill you.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Brent announces.

The way they look at me – like vermin. I know. I know it’s wrong, I know I should be disgusted, but I’m not, even when I pretended to be.

“You’re going through some shit,” Spencer, of all people, says. He was the one to put the last nail to my coffin. “We just want to help.”

“Help me? You want to _help_ me?!”” I yell at him. I’m not sick. Sleeping with another guy isn’t sick – they only say it is because they haven’t done it, but I swear, if any of them ever got Brendon Urie into their beds, they’d change their fucking minds. “How could you rat me out like that?” I hiss at Spencer.

“Don’t blame him if he chooses not to support your lies!” Joe demands.

Lies. I know about those.

Spencer’s looking at me, and his eyes widen. “Ryan. Ryan, don’t do it. Fuck, man, you can’t –”

“You know, I’m not the worst one here,” I say with sudden clarity, feeling my mouth twist into a cruel smile. “At least I’m not married or a father.”

Magically, the room quiets down again. Pete, who has been silent throughout this entire mess, asks, “What?” His voice is wearing thin.

Spencer’s eyes are pleading, but I promptly ignore him. “Spencer never broke up with Haley. He married her, and they have a kid. So I suggest that if we’re gonna talk about lies and deception and who’s screwing up this band, then let’s talk about that.”

I take a step back and let the scene unfold, watching the beautiful way in which the blame now flows away from me. Not all of it and only temporarily, because they will remember and come after me, but no one can tell me that I’m the screw up in this room.

Joe wants to destroy me. I’ve known that for years.

What he doesn’t know is that I always knew this day would come, when he decided to take the fatal blow, and I’ve been ready. I have no plans except to drag him and everyone else down with me.

I announce that I’m quitting this shitty excuse of a band before any of them beat me to it.


	6. Bad Business

When I was fourteen, I decided that I was going to be a musician. I had had my guitar for a bit over a year. I didn’t think I was amazing with it, not yet anyway. I wasn’t allowed to play when Dad was hungover, which in practice meant that I could only play when he was out. I went over to Spencer’s house to play sometimes, but not too often. They were a real family. I didn’t want to intrude on that.

Spencer and I started busking to work on our skills, but we rarely made money. My voice was untrained, my fingers clumsy. He had this red tenor drum that he dragged around. I didn’t take our efforts seriously until one night when I realised that I had to get out. I sat next to my bed in the dark, guitar in my lap. My lower lip was busted. Dad had left for the bar since. It wasn’t his fault, but my own. I tripped rushing upstairs.

I don’t ever remember crying during those years, and I know I haven’t cried since my departure – not out of sorrow, not out of happiness. It’s all the same to me.

I thought back then that the only chance I had, the only one I was ever going to get, was music. That if I left, which I did, and if I got a band together, which I did, and if we became successful, which we did, I’d be happy.

But ‘happy’ is such a vague word, meaning something different to different people. I just wanted to play my music and hopefully some people would like it, and then I could make a living out of it. I could stomach the fame if the focus was right, but it’s not. The girls come to the shows to stare at me or one of the others. They scream and scream, hands outstretched, and they have _posters_ of me hanging in their bedrooms, and they bat their eyelashes at the paper version of me, use hairbrushes for microphones and sing my words at me, kiss me goodnight, and I could be singing about fucking daffodils or a pile of horse shit and it wouldn’t matter. They want me. Music is just the excuse.

The boys who come to the shows aren’t any better. Despite Brendon’s preferences, I still think we live in a heterosexual world, so they’re not there to fuck me. They want to be like me. I can’t wrap my mind around it, what it is about this circus that they would want to get a piece of. It must be the girls that they want. The fame.

And both parties claim that it’s the music. It’s the mind-blowing music, the highs and the lows, the world I create, the crazy whirlwind of emotion that the instruments conjure around us. It’s the change in time signature at the sixth minute or the explosion of drums when you least expect it.

I know they don’t care about that. Critics do, giving me some gratification and some of that acknowledgement of musical integrity that the kids try to take away from me. Two out of every thousand fans come to the show for the right reason. I like those two kids.

I’ve known that my bandmates are in this for the wrong reasons. I’ve known that Joe, Brent and Pete have all been chasing immortality, Joe probably wanting it with a side of sex icon status.

Spencer’s been in it for me.

So what do you do when you realise that the last pieces of string holding you together have dissolved?

I know what we did. Firstly, we went on stage twenty minutes late. It was the biggest fight we have ever had, and Spencer got the same amount of shit I did. He’s married and a father. Pete didn’t know. Goes to show how stealthy Spencer has been about it all, how deep that deception goes.

I quit first, then Joe said that no, he was quitting, and then Brent said he had been meaning to quit for weeks now, and Spencer said he couldn’t be a one man band, so he quit too. Pete only managed to get us on stage by blackmailing and reminding us of our contract, saying that no hasty decisions should be made and that without the band we were nothing. So we went on stage, and we played the show. Why? Because we’re professionals. Joe now thinks I’m not, that having fucked another man has cancelled out the little I had going for me.

I think it equals out in their minds, my sex life and Spencer’s marital life, my few-weeks-old secret and his month-after-month-after-month deception. My affair with a member of my own sex has gone beyond any nasty thought they’ve ever had of me. They’ve thought I’m a cunt at one point or another, but even then, they didn’t think I’d sink this low.

I’ve used up my voice saying that it’s just sex. It’s _tour_ sex, which has even less meaning than normal sex. Compared to some of the shit Joe’s done, my perversion shouldn’t be that big of a deal. That’s the thing, though. It is.

I haven’t talked to Brendon since.

That’s the second thing you need to do – alienate yourself from the source of disruption.

I’ve wanted to be a professional musician since I was fourteen. Now that I am, I realise that I should have been more specific. What kind of success? A van or an airplane? A full auditorium or a half-empty bar? I should have decided early on what exactly I was chasing. It hasn’t been immortality. Maybe I’ve just wanted a break or to finally like myself or to find something stupid and childish like a home.

And Pete was right. Without this band, no matter how much we loathe each other, what am I? Who am I? Am I anything at all?

Even if I’ve now realised that my existence is tied into this circus, it doesn’t feel good that the truth is out. It doesn’t feel good to stand on stage on our second and final night in Denver, when no one in the band is talking to anyone. It doesn’t feel good when we finish a song and Brendon comes to give me the next guitar, and he looks at me, trying to get eye contact, but I don’t return his gaze. Thousands are watching me, but they don’t pay attention to the random guy who appears on stage momentarily. They only see me, and I need to learn how to do that too. Learn how to find myself in this chaos instead of only finding others.

I can’t look at Brendon without someone thinking I’m a disgusting freak. I’m not trying to be like the world around me – I just want the guys to let me be. And that means that I have to choose something instead of flicker back and forth between right and wrong, normal and abnormal, heresy and orthodoxy.

After we wrap up the show, playing the final song, Joe thanks the audience, Brent and Spencer waving to the crowd as we drag ourselves offstage. I never wave to the audience once we’re done. Usually, the roadies and Pete are standing in the sidelines, high-fiving us or patting our shoulders, telling us that we did alright, but this time, they let us pass in silence. Zack and Andy are both trying very obviously not to look at me.

Pete’s organised a car to take the band back to the hotel while the crew are left to clean up. We sit in the back of the limo, the four of us, no one saying a single word.

A limo. I guess it’s a sign of Pete’s utter desperation. Throw us into luxury, and we’ll be too overwhelmed to remember that we’re not even friends anymore.

It’s raining in Denver, droplets rolling down the tinted windows. It takes ten minutes to get out of the venue because fans have flocked outside, and the car has to inch through the crowd, shouts and occasional flashes of cameras penetrating the silent, dead atmosphere inside the vehicle. Joe is looking out of the window at the fans we can see, though they can’t see us. His hair is wet from a quick post-show shower, a beer bottle now firmly in his grip. Joe’s the only one who’s ever been honest, even if I’ve felt the furthest from him. Maybe it was the honesty I had trouble with. Brent is looking at me, malice in his gaze. Spencer looks uncomfortable and shamed like he’s let Brent and Joe down, staring at his shoes. Spencer would think that. He’s still been friends with them.

No one’s shouting at anyone anymore. We already did that part.

When we get to the hotel, Joe and Brent march straight for the stairs, clearly having no desire sharing an elevator ride with me or Spencer. At least we go down together, me and him. It’s got symmetry in it.

The flustered woman at the reception tells me that I’ve received a message, giving me big eyes like she’s staring at a superstar. It’s no wonder because the hotel guards are holding back the eager fans outside even as we speak. I quickly take the paper slip from her, reading, ‘Where are you? – Jac’ before folding and pocketing it. There’s a reason I’ve practically hung up on Jac the few times she’s called.

Spencer’s got a message too. He reads it, then looks up and says, “Haley.”

“Figures,” I reply, keeping my voice as neutral as I can.

I expect him to take the stairs too, but we end up in the same elevator. The confined space feels claustrophobic, too small for us to be in the same space after we’ve stabbed each other in the backs. I’m relatively sure I’m still bleeding all over the place.

I look at the lights above the door, seeing the number two light up, and god, this is slow, we’ll never get to the fifth floor. Does he expect to say something? Or am I waiting for him to take a swing at me? Who’d be more justified? The number three illuminates, and I feel the tension between us, thick and murky, weighing me down. Four. Thank god, just a bit –

“You didn’t have to tell them, you know.”

I instantly press the stop button on the side panel, causing the elevator to come to an abrupt stop in between floors. Spencer meets my angered gaze calmly. When Spencer’s pissed, I mean _really_ pissed and not just shocked or upset, he doesn’t yell. He talks to you, acknowledges you, but his eyes remain blank. It’s the clarity he gets when he’s furious.

“You didn’t have to tell them either,” I point out sharply.

“I didn’t do it out of spite,” he notes, then adding a muttered, “unlike some.”

“You sold me out yesterday! Doesn’t matter why you did it!”

He lets out an exaggerated sigh, and I avert my gaze, feeling anger boiling inside me. “Listen, Joe saw you. He wasn’t going to believe any excuses, not when you had guilt all over your face. Come on, I only verified what everyone knew. Subconsciously, anyway.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Sometimes you don’t want to believe what’s right in front of your eyes,” he says in this annoying holier-than-thou, I-understand-the-world voice.

“Fuck yo –”

“I was trying to protect you,” he cuts me off.

“My god,” I laugh bitterly, but he stares me down unblinkingly. I grit my teeth. “Since when have you had to protect me, huh? I’ve always taken care of myself, you know that. I’ve –”

“Do you even believe that?” he asks quietly.

“That’s different,” I argue. “The fans, the fame? Okay, maybe I don’t know how to deal with that, maybe you’ve had to talk me into going on stage, like, once. But when it comes to who I take back to my room? I know you don’t like Jac but you’re not going around sabotaging that, and Brendon’s fucking harmless so –”

“It’s not- It’s not the sex,” he says, clearly struggling to verbalise it, which means that it _is_ the sex. I scoff and press the stop button again, the lift jerking as it kicks back into motion. “Listen,” he demands as the doors open to our floor, and we step out together. “I like Brendon, it’s not like I’ve got any beef with him, but... You’ve never – I know he’s the only guy you’ve ever done those things with, and it’s not _like_ you, you’re just acting out because –”

“Oh, this is your revenge theory again, is it?” I scoff. Maybe this isn’t about any of them or what they do or don’t do. Maybe this is about Brendon and me, and how we – “Joe fucks anything that moves, but no one cares because it’s all pussy. I do one guy after dozens of women, and everyone thinks I need help. Such bullshit,” I mutter under my breath as we head down the corridor.

“Joe fucks women we never see again! Brendon’s around us all day and night! He’s around _you_ all the time, and –”

“So?”

“It – For god’s sake!” He stops walking, causing me to mimic him. He looks troubled as he sighs. “He could go to the press with this or he could get clingy. I mean, the other day I realised that I know _nothing_ about him.”

“I know him,” I object as I get out my room key.

“Yeah?” he asks, tone challenging. “How old is he?”

“What?”

“What year was he born?”

“Look, I don’t – I don’t need to answer tha –”

“You don’t know.”

“I don’t care to know,” I note. “Just because we’re famous now doesn’t mean that we have to do the third degree on everyone! Some people are for real.”

“No one’s real.”

He looks dead serious, not trying to be sarcastic, not sounding sad. He’s stating a fact he believes in. It’s Pete’s fault. When Pete tried to pay Haley off, Spencer lost trust in the business and anyone involved. He’s convinced there are no genuine people around us and he’s mostly right, but Brendon is different. He doesn’t care how famous I am. Fuck, he’d leave me for Bowie in the blink of an eye if he could.

“Don’t stand there and say you’re fucking concerned because we don’t know Brendon,” I mutter angrily. “Just own up to it, alright? Be honest.”

“Own up what?”

“That you’re repulsed by it.”

Spencer looks at me for a long time before averting his gaze. It settles hard in my guts, and I can’t push the feeling away. Instead I quickly go to my hotel door, and he follows me stubbornly.

“My point is,” he says, not giving me an answer, “that I was trying to do what was the best for the band. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do. It’s bad business, this thing with you two. Saw it myself in Omaha, the second you had a fight with him you acted like the world had ended and he wasn’t much better, and we _can’t_ have that in the band. There’s too much at stake. Whereas you jeopardising the welfare of my wife and daughter simply for payback?”

“Doing what’s best for the band,” I retort, pushing my door open.

“No. That was not for the best for anyone,” he disagrees coldly. “I wanted to keep my girls away from this scene, and I thought you of all people would have understood that, that you- Now this band’s fucked. Joe and Brent are fucking pissed off at us, and –”  
  
“I haven’t talked to Brendon since yesterday, alright?” I snap. “What more do you fucking want?”

He steps back. “More. If we plan to stick together as a band, a hell of a lot more.”

But I feel like I’ve given all I can possibly give.

He turns around, stuffing hands into his jean pockets, shoulders slumped as he heads for his own room. I watch him go.

The Followers has been the focal point of my life for the past five years. No matter what I say, I can’t imagine my life without it, and now it’s slipping away and fading out, leaving me with a lot of nothing.

If someone asks me what it feels like to live the dream, I’ll tell them that my fourteen-year-old self knew fuck all. Distinguishing a dream from a nightmare is surprisingly hard.

* * *

Brendon is giving me space. Or he might be. All I know is that he hasn’t come up to talk to me, and I haven’t acknowledged him either, so I don’t actually know what’s going on. Maybe he’s lost interest. Maybe he knows what I know – that it was fun while it lasted, but we got caught. It’s easy for him because he’s just some gay kid from San Francisco. What does he have to lose?

I’ve never really had to break up with people, not that we were together in any capacity – you can’t have actual relationships with other men – but it’s still been more than a fleeting backstage blowjob or two. I can’t just walk away or ignore him forever. He’d think I’m an asshole.

I’ll take responsibility of my actions this time around. If I do the right damn thing, no one should have anything to complain about.

So all I need to do is go up to Brendon and inform him that we’re done fucking around. Then I will force myself to keep my hands to myself for the rest of this pathetic tour, not watch him when he crosses the room because there’s just something irresistible in the way he walks, the way his jeans cup his ass, his t-shirt always an inch too short, the way his hair falls over his face, the way his neck glistens with sweat during the shows even if he’s not on stage himself. I won’t pay attention to any of it. It’s not like it’s an addiction.

I had my insane homosexual affair. I’ve ticked that off on my ‘Crazy shit to do before I die’ list, right there between feeding a shark and mountaineering.

I wait until we get to Salt Lake City. Denver caught up with my lies, revealed my dirty secret to everyone, and I divided my time between the shows, the soundchecks, the interviews and then hiding in my room and not showing my face out of shame and anger.

It’s not that I’m putting it off. I just had some crucial brooding to do in Denver. That’s all.

Brendon’s been driving, and I’m not sure if it was his turn or because he didn’t want to get stuck in the lounge with me. Or with them. Both.

It’s early afternoon, and a car is waiting behind the venue, ready to take Joe and Spencer for an interview at a radio station. Pete starts delegating who goes where and does what. Everyone knows the truth now, knows what’s up and who’s been lying, but we just ignore it. We’ve been ignoring it all along, first limping slightly, then an entire leg dropping off, but we’ve kept dragging ourselves, inching forwards with a mouth full of dirt. By now, we don’t even have our head on, but we’re too stupid to notice.

Pete is eyeing his wristwatch worriedly as the crew starts leaving the lounge. “We’re late, god, we’re late, don’t have time to go to the hotel until after the show. God. Spencer, you’ve got three interviews before soundcheck,” he calls after our drummer, who is getting off the bus.

“What about me?” I ask, unwilling to get up from the comfy lounge couch.

“Decided to give you a free pass today. Thought you might need it.”

“Spencer doesn’t need it?”

“It seems like Spencer’s a master in juggling several things all at once,” Pete notes sourly. He’s taking Spencer’s deception personally. All this time, Pete thought that he had managed to get rid of Haley. Being wrong must sting.

“What you gonna do about it?” I ask curiously, and he gives me a blank expression. “His family.”

“What can I do about it?” he asks sharply. “Invent a time machine and make sure those two never cross paths? Nothing I can do about it. Hope that no one finds out until they have to. Keep the ball rolling. All I can fucking do.”

For some fucked up reason, I feel vaguely guilty for keeping Spencer’s secret as long as I did. But what difference does it make? It could only end up like this. He can’t have both. He told me that he knows he can’t, and neither can I.

“Can I borrow Brendon for a bit?” I ask Pete, who instantly looks both worried and angered. “Not to... do whatever you’re thinking right now.”

“Then what for?”

“To tell him I’m done with him.”

“You are?” he asks sceptically. _Sceptically._ Does he think that he knows me? He eventually shrugs. “Sure. That’s good. That’s what the band needs.”

It’s that something more everyone’s expecting from me right now. It’ll show them that I’m not what they think I am, to show I am committed to the cause. Of course I am. Even in the sorriest state of this enterprise, I have nothing else worth fighting for.

Brendon’s waiting for me outside the bus when I finally force my feet to move. The compartments on the bus’s side are all open, Zack, William and Andy getting the gear out. The venue backdoors are wide open, venue workers helping the guys out as Pete supervises everything. Brendon’s smoking languidly in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of blue bell jeans, the most boring combination of clothing ever but he looks so fucking good.

“You wanted something?” he asks me.

“Yeah. We should go for a walk.”

Pete is not looking our way, Zack and Andy following his example, but William stops to peer at us, eyes thinning curiously and pensively. I feel awkward around Brendon now, making sure to keep my hands by my sides, my gaze generally on his face, not fixed on any specific feature like his lips, with at least three feet between us.

“Sure,” he shrugs.

We walk away silently, and I don’t even know where the hell we are. The back of the venue is full of parked cars and we walk through them silently towards the street. There are no fans around, a rare exception these days.

“Are we just walking or going somewhere?” he asks when we get to the side of the road, lighting up a new cigarette. I look up and down the street, hoping maybe to spot a bar or someplace neutral. Not here where anyone could see or hear.

“Maybe there’s a bar around the corner.”

“There are no bars around and, even if there were, they wouldn’t be open right now.”

“How do you know? You lived here too?” I ask pointedly.

“No.”

“Exactly,” I grumble, nodding to my left to keep us moving. We’ve walked half a block in silence before it hits me where we are. He hasn’t lived here, but he’s lived a short drive away. What was it that Audrey said? That where she grew up, this city was the big bad wolf? Brendon knows this place. It’s amazing how I’ve spent the last five years of my life travelling around this continent, but I don’t know my country at all. Brendon, on the other hand, knows the gay bars in San Francisco, the diners in Omaha and the bars in Salt Lake City.

He seems closed off, but restless somehow. I don’t know if it’s because he knows what’s coming or because he’s back in Utah. He said it himself that he got to the state line when he heard about his brother’s death before turning back. Now he’s been forced to come back here.

I keep leading us aimlessly until I spot a park across the road. It looks tranquil, trees swaying in the summer wind as out in the distance beyond the city mountain ranges rise high up, breaking the skyline. I could pick a worse place to do this.

We walk into the park, and I eventually stop by a tennis court two men are playing on, the smacks of ball versus racket cutting through the air. Brendon’s been smoking like a chimney the entire way, but he now looks into his cigarette pack and curses.

“You got any?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“We’ll stop on the way back. I’ll get you some.”

He stares, like he might be offended. “You don’t need to buy me smokes.”

“I know, I just –”

“Look, what do you want?” he asks impatiently. “I should be working, but instead I’m here because you wanted to take a stroll, and you didn’t drag me to the nearest hotel to fuck me, so –”

“Would you keep it down?” I hiss because there’s a family on a picnic not too far away, the father looking at us with scandalised eyes. God, why did I decide to have this conversation with him at all?

I grab Brendon’s arm and drag him further down the path and out of sight. Last thing we need is someone calling the cops on the two sodomites arguing in front of precious, innocent children, though they couldn’t arrest us for talking. It’s different in California, I don’t think they have laws against what we’ve been doing there anymore, but in Utah? It has to be illegal here. Maybe they never implement it, but the law is there. They could put us behind bars for public disturbance if they wanted to. Getting arrested in Philadelphia showed that I really can’t trust the authorities.

Brendon pulls himself free, taking in a deep breath as we’re now more remote and by ourselves. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “God, I just- I haven’t slept, I spent all morning driving, and you’re –”

He stops, and I ask, “I’m what?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, shrugging. “Scaring me.” He keeps his eyes firmly on our shoes, his cheeks a slight tinge of pink. His hair is sticking out at the top a little bit, and I have to resist the urge to smooth it down.

“It’s just a mess,” I say quietly. “After they found out about Haley and Suzie, and about what we’re doing. The band’s a mess.”

“I know,” he says in a slightly disbelieving tone, like witnessing the four of us strangle ourselves with our lies is like watching _One Life to Live_ , only with less bad acting and more real emotion. “William’s been such a drama queen about it, constantly yakking away at what a bad friend I am. Kinda been keeping my distance from you to let him calm down, you know?” he asks timidly. “Felt like you needed it too.”

“I did.”

He sighs restlessly and finally looks up at me. “So what do we do now that they know?”

“Now that –” I start, feeling a lump in my throat. “Now that they know we’ve fucked a few times, we have to stop. We can’t do it anymore.”

“We can’t lie about it anymore? Because that –”

“We can’t do this,” I clarify, motioning between myself and him. “I can’t do this. It’s not good for the band, our reputation, when we’re so close to really making it. I don’t want to be a shooting star. I can’t risk it for... whatever.”

The band’s all I’ve got. They’re all I’ve fucking got, and I hate them for it. I’ve spent all summer biting the hand that feeds me.

He stares at me with expressionless eyes for what feels like forever before he says, “Oh.” He looks over my shoulder. “Not like I expected anything else, anyway.” I try to read him, if he’s angry or sad. I get nothing. He clears his throat, a momentary pain flickering in his eyes before it vanishes. “It’s not good to keep casual sex arrangements on for too long either. You lose the spark and then they become a drag.”

“That’s true,” I agree. But there’s just the slightest tension in his shoulders that I can detect if I focus on it hard enough.

“It’s good,” he adds, now beginning to walk back to where we came from, and I follow him. “William will get off my back, you know?”

“And they’ll get off mine,” I mutter, hoping to god they will. If it’s in the past, they should just let it go. He’s taking this well. Maybe he’s taking this too well.

“Yeah, because Joe calling you what he did...”

“Exactly!” I agree instantly, the memory still pissing me off. “God, he should know me better than that.”

“Right. Because you’re totally not gay.”

“You’ve met my girlfriend, right?” I ask, chuckling.

He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah. Definitely met her...” His voice fades as he sticks his hands into his pockets. The late August day doesn’t feel so warm anymore. I look around as we walk, trying to think of things to talk about. If I’m not whispering dirty things in his ear, then what am I doing?

We take a different route back to the venue, and I thank my lucky stars when we pass a liquor store. “I’ll wait here,” he says, voice perfectly neutral. He’s not looking at me. I try not to let it bother me. I mean, I didn’t want him to get into bitch mode or to make a scene so I appreciate his tact, but it’s like he doesn’t even care.

He doesn’t care, and all I want to do is get drunk to get rid of the sense of loss.

I end up buying him three packs of cigarettes, three for me, two bottles of vodka and a bottle of bourbon. The shopkeeper looks at me like I’ve walked out of a prison as he puts my purchases into paper bags. I plan to be drunk as hell within an hour, prowling backstage with a bottle, anything to forget how Brendon’s there but not in the capacity I’d want him to be. Hell, maybe I’ll even try and get Spencer, Brent or Joe have a drink with me, ask them how they’re doing.

“Thanks,” I tell the guy, my hands full as I leave the small, stuffy store, the bell ringing as I push the door open. I instantly bump into Brendon, nearly losing balance as we hit each other, me stepping out and him on his way in. I drop one of the bags, the sound of glass breaking as it meets the concrete, the brown bag instantly turning into a darker shade as the alcohol soaks into it.

Brendon looks at me, blurts out, “Sorry,” but I stop entirely. His voice is rushed and panicked, his eyes wild with fear, and he glances over my shoulder as he pushes into the store, practically running in. I swirl around and see a big, middle-aged man rushing down the street towards us, face full of surprise. There’s something eerily familiar about him.

Not knowing what else to do, I wrench the door open and step back inside, just catching a glimpse of Brendon disappearing into the backroom as the guy behind the counter yells, “I told you that you can’t go in there! You –”

“Wait up!” I call after him, dumping the rest of my purchases onto the counter.

“I don’t do refunds! Listen, you’re not allowed to go back there, I’m going to call the –”

“Fuck off,” I snap, rushing after Brendon.

Just as I get into the backroom, I hear the front door opening again, the bell ringing and a steady, firm male voice saying, “Excuse me, but did –” and the voice has got an echo to it that I recognise. I don’t stop to listen as the backdoor of the shop slams shut across the small storage room, and I follow, exiting the shop and stepping onto a dirty back alley.

My eyes find Brendon who is far gone by now, running as fast as his feet let him. I’m completely bewildered, the shock in his eyes circling in my veins, an image I can’t forget. I’ve never seen him scared.

I hear raised voices behind me, sounding like the shopkeeper and the other man arguing just behind the door, a “This is unacceptable, you can’t come in here!” echoing through.

I break into a run, trying to catch up with Brendon. I know he’s got excellent endurance – I know that first hand – but after two blocks, I think he’s fucking overdoing it. He keeps pushing people out of the way, leaving pedestrians staring after him in astonishment, but it clears the path for me, enabling me to finally catch up with him.

“Brendon, fucking stop!” I yell, giving his back a shove. He stumbles right on his feet, crashing forwards and making friends with the ground. I come to an abrupt stop, completely out of breath. “Sorry, fuck –”

He only scrambles up to his feet, swirling around. His right cheek has now got a nasty, red scratch on it, but he doesn’t seem to be aware as his eyes fly to where we came from.

“No, you don’t!” I snap when he tries to break into a run again. I grab his arm and pull him off the street and in between buildings. I let him go, shoving him backwards until he hits the dirty brick wall in the dead end alleyway. He’s as out of breath as I am. “No one’s following us,” I say, trying to get in some air as my right side prickles painfully. I wince and place my hand there. I don’t need to do exercise – playing shows is enough and I’m naturally skinny. Now, however, I regret not being in better physical condition.

Brendon’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, disbelief and anger on his features, clearly having gotten over the initial fear that I saw.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap. “Are we running a marathon here?”

“I need to go,” he rushes out, moving to get past me, but I push him further into the alleyway and away from the street, the people, his only exit out. “Ryan, fucking let me –”

“No! You start talking!”

“It’s none of your –”

“Most sons greet their fathers with hugs. Guess you’re an exception to that rule too,” I snarl, and when his eyes widen, I add, “I’ve got a father too. Trust me, I know that ‘fuck me, it’s my old man’ look when I see it. I’m not stupid.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“So tell me!” I yell out of frustration. The guy had Brendon’s eyes, Brendon’s chin, his voice was somehow similar, the way they punctuated words. Brendon saw the guy and ran for it. No, Brendon _panicked_ and ran.

“Since when do you have the right to pry into –”

“Alright, I’ll go back and ask him then! You ran like a coward when –”

“Screw you!” he snarls. “Last time I saw him he broke my arm! You think I was going to stick around for round two?!”

I take a step back. My eyes instantly run over his arms, as if one of them might still be broken, but he’s intact even though he’s not. Clearly, he is barely holding it together. He curses heavily, hands in fists as he aims a forceless kick against the wall.

I think back to his father with a sudden, cold rage. Dad threw me around a few times, and I ended up with bruises, but he never –

“You didn’t just vanish,” I find myself saying, recalling Audrey’s words of one day Brendon being there, the next not. “You ran. Just like you did now.”

“Well, him beating the crap out of me hardly made me want to stay,” he notes, voice dripping sarcasm. It’s not enough to cover up the fear in his tone.

“Fuck, you were only fifteen,” I breathe out. I think I’ve known for some time now that it was him who left, having put the pieces together from what Audrey told me and how Brendon knows this country, has lived all over. The way it’s obvious that he takes care of himself and doesn’t expect anyone to tuck him to bed at night. The way he won’t talk about any of it. And now I know he had a good reason to leave. “You haven’t seen your father since, have you?”

“No,” he says, voice trembling slightly.

He’s trying hard to act like he’s not afraid, but he is. I stopped being scared when I was still living with my own father. You can only watch someone’s self-inflicted messes, their pathetic struggles for so long before you realise how they don’t deserve your concern, pity or fear. One punch to his jaw, and we knew the score. Dad never bothered me again.

Brendon’s still scared.

“Did he do that a lot? Smack you and your siblings around? Hell, maybe your mother too,” I add as an afterthought. Fuck, what if Matt got beaten up by their dad so badly that he died of it? All that crap about falling off a roof was just a cover up.

He shakes his head, and even though I’ve caught my breath, he is still breathing in and out hard. God, he’s upset. I’d give a supportive shoulder squeeze if I didn’t feel like he’d punch me for it.

“He never touched anyone else.”

“But why would –” I start before it comes back to me. “Oh.”

The start of the tour, Nate starting shit with Brendon in St. Louis and Brendon’s nose bleeding, him sitting on the ground outside of a café, and he told me back then, didn’t he? I knew his story all along without knowing it. He said he’s gotten punched for it before.

“You came out to your dad, and he beat you up.”

To my surprise, Brendon laughs, shooting me a degrading glare. “You think I would’ve been that stupid? Telling them?”

“If not that –”

“Didn’t have to tell them,” he notes bitterly. “I kept these –” he starts before smiling to himself crookedly. “I’d ripped out pages from fashion catalogues at my friend’s house... Men’s underwear. Fucking lousy jerk off material, but it did the job. I hid them under my mattress, and then... I don’t know who found them, but Dad didn’t stop to ask questions. I came home from school and instead of a hello I got... And they all watched. They all just stood and watched as Dad put the fear of God in me. That fucking –”

He cuts himself off and attempts to hit the brick wall, deciding last second it’s probably a stupid idea, his knuckles only briefly grazing the hard material.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He was _fifteen_. He was a fucking kid. Maybe I was younger when Dad first took a swing at me, but I was never actually young, not in my heart or my mind, and my dad’s swings at me mostly missed the target, anyway. He never really beat me up, not properly. I never ran away. I wanted to get out, but I wanted to be smart about it and make sure that when I did leave, I wouldn’t come back.

“They just stood there without stepping in between?” I ask slowly. His siblings, his mother, just letting his father beat the crap out of him?

“Yeah,” he says. “There was a doctor we knew. He put my hand in a cast that night. Mom had to smuggle me out of the house behind Dad’s back to get me checked up, to get me stitched up and the... She kept saying that they could fix me, that now I knew it was wrong and that Dad did it because he loved me. They called it love.”

“That’s not love,” I note quietly, mind flashing with Brendon on a floor, maybe the living room floor, a sharp kick to his stomach, blood and tears, and they just fucking stood there and watched as he got called a faggot and a sinner. Maybe for the first time in his life, too, but definitely not for the last time. Did he beg his father to stop, for the rest of the family to intervene, or did he just lie there, accepting his fate?

Which approach has left him this angry?

“I knew it wasn’t love,” he says roughly. “I knew I’d die if I stayed there, I knew that, I - So when everyone went to bed that night, I left. I didn’t even pack, I just had to get out. Hitch-hiking with a broken arm and a black eye, looking like you should be in school? Fucking miracle I got a ride.”

“Brendon.”

He glances at me in surprise like he forgot I was here. I don’t know what to say when I notice the moisture in his eyes. He blinks quickly and ducks his head, wiping his cheeks quickly. “Yeah, I know. Shit happens. It’s just a story now.”

“It’s not,” I tell him quietly. “He didn’t have the right. None of them had the right to do what they did to you.”

“But that doesn’t make it easier, does it?”

I step closer to him, lifting my hand to his cheek. He flinches but stays where he is, eyes cast downwards. I carefully trace his cheek bone with my thumb where a red scratch now cuts across the pale skin slightly wet from the stray tears he let himself shed. I can pretend he didn’t slip if he wants me to.

“Hey,” I whisper, feeling the ache in my own chest ease as I have him closer. When my hand slides to the back of his neck and I lean in, eyes on his lips, he takes an abrupt step back.

“Don’t. You’re done with that, remember?”

Fuck, I already forgot.

“That was before –”

“You knowing doesn’t change anything,” he notes, the anger now back. “I don’t want your pity. Don’t need it either. You know what you want, and it’s not this, so...” He stops to take in a quivery breath. “So let’s get back to the venue. Before I...”

He pushes past me, and this time I don’t stop him. His steps are hurried, something broken and hurt in the way he walks. Somehow similar to the way his father walked.

* * *

The club is smoky, sweaty and swarmed, an upbeat pop song belting loudly in the background. I’ve been talking to Zack since we got here, grateful that he’s not avoiding me despite him knowing about my extracurricular activities. I think he’s decided that if he pretends it didn’t happen, then it didn’t happen. It might as well not have happened. Brendon’s somewhere in the club, and I haven’t been keeping an eye on him, even if I can’t stop thinking about him for a second.

Girls come up to Zack and me at regular intervals, but all I need to do is give Zack a look and he turns them around. One time a blond boy walks over, handsome and looking like he might be too young to be there, giving me a long, awed and undoubtedly seductive look, and instead of waving him off, Zack looks uncertain and lifts an eyebrow at me. “God, him too,” I say restlessly and focus on my drink as Zack tells him that Mr. Ross wishes to be left alone.

“Sorry,” Zack mumbles once the kid is gone, and he leans against the bar table with me. “Just wasn’t sure.”

“Whatever. I don’t swing that way, you know?” I ask pointedly and cling to my beer bottle. Salt Lake City got a shitty show, and it wasn’t because I got wasted like I wanted to. I was sober, but I couldn’t concentrate at all. After what happened with Brendon, it’s been the only thing on my mind. And now he clearly expects me to act like nothing happened, but I can’t do that.

Zack shrugs beside me. “I don’t really care what way you swing.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

He sips his beer, looking unusually thoughtful. “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t know anything was up. If it was still going on but was, like, undetectable, then I don’t see why I should care. Not my business what people do behind closed doors.”

“You’re the only one in this club, no, in this _state_ who feels like that.”

“That’s because I’m amazing,” he concludes casually, and I laugh as I take another sip. There’s always someone who’s the odd one out, but he just goes to prove that I can’t anymore. Regardless of Brendon’s past, the way I can’t stop thinking about him and the way I feel hollow, I can’t.

Even Zack is giving consent on the condition that he doesn’t know. But sometimes it’s damn hard to hide something like that. You forget you can’t do the same things out in the real world.

Zack starts talking about the best new band he’s discovered this year called Kiss and how they wear makeup and are totally rocking, but I don’t pay attention. Sounds like the band’s theatricality is trying to cover up the mediocrity of the music. We end up talking bullshit about music, anyway, with our backs to the bar, watching the people in the club, Zack still turning down girls who approach me.

My eyes eventually find Brendon standing on the other side of the dance floor with the good-looking blond guy that tried to come up to me earlier. The red lights of the club land on them, and Brendon doesn’t seem to be into the conversation. The guy, though, is leaning in to whisper into Brendon’s ear, is laughing and flashing smiles, and you don’t need to be gay to realise what the guy wants. Brendon doesn’t even react. Eventually, Brendon seems to excuse himself, and I watch him head to the toilets. The blond kid looks after him, looking frustrated and disappointed.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” I inform Zack. I get stopped four times crossing the room, but if I just ignore the ‘oh my god, you’re Ryan Ross!’s, they are so star struck that I’ve passed them by the time they recover.

The men’s restrooms are not overly busy; one guy in fashionable disco attire is washing his hands. I scoff. Disco. That’s not music, that’s just noise. Stupid fads...

Next to the guy is Brendon who is absently staring into the mirror and fixing his hair like he has no actual interest in it. I march over, snatching his wrist. “Come on,” I say swiftly, not giving him time to argue as I pull him to the nearest vacant stall with me. I don’t care what Disco Boy thinks about that.

I lock the door as Brendon stares at me, eyes thinning. “What are you –”

“Why’d you turn that guy down?”

He looks even more confused. “Who?”

“That incredibly good-looking blond kid who’s spent the last half an hour chatting you up? What, you practising celibacy now? Don’t believe that for a second.”

“Maybe I don’t feel like sex tonight,” he says angrily.

“Please,” I snort. He’s practically insatiable. He keeps glaring, and I add, “I think you stood there wondering if your dad was right. If you are a freak. If, now that you’re back in your home state, he can just somehow sense your immoral thoughts, and maybe you did deserve what he did to you, maybe –”

“Shut up!” he orders, clearly distressed by my words. God, I was right. “You don’t- Just because you know, it doesn’t mean you get to talk about it! You _don’t_ get to talk about it. Not now, not ever.”

I let out a sigh and lean against the stall wall. “Alright.” After a pause, I shrug. “But you should still fuck that guy. You should go back to his place and have the gayest time you’ve had in your life.” He laughs disbelievingly, looking at me like I’m deranged. I smirk at him as I get out a joint and light it up. “Really,” I note as I inhale.

“And why would I do that?”

I stare at him intently, hearing the thud of the club outside. Sounds like they’re playing Grand Funk’s cover of _The Locomotion_. Screw me on the day I try to cover up my lack of originality by playing someone else’s music. I offer Brendon the joint, but he doesn’t take it. Instead he keeps his brown eyes on me. “Because there’s nothing wrong with the way you are,” I tell him quietly, my voice sounding oddly soft to my ears.

Brendon breaks the eye contact by glancing down, and some of that anger that he’s been carrying around all day seems to fade away a little. “I’ve been... been thinking that at least... at least he knows I’m alive, you know? I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t want them thinking I’m dead or anything.”

“Yeah,” I agree slowly. “At least he knows now. If you ask me, he’s gotten more than he deserves.” I offer him the joint again, holding it low for him to see. He clears his throat as he accepts it, lifting his head and taking a hit.

He holds in his breath, eyes closing as he passes the joint back. He eventually exhales, blinking as he opens his eyes. “Fuck, that’s good shit.”

“I’m too famous for bad drugs,” I note, letting my eyes focus on his lips that twist into a smile. It’s true, though. Magically, throughout this summer, the drugs we do have gotten better and better. No one even tries selling us B class products anymore, not when we’re clearly above that.

“I should go back, then. Find the lucky guy,” Brendon says quietly. His voice is a bit lower, the way it gets when he’s thinking about sex. “Before someone thinks we’re... Because we’re not anymore.”

“We’re not,” I confirm, more to remind myself, really. We’re not. It’s over now. I keep staring at his lips, joint forgotten between my fingers. God, I just... He licks his lips, and sudden want pools in my guts. The grass is affecting me now, blurring my senses slightly, and really, what harm could it do to say goodbye, to just... Brendon moves forward slightly, and I instantly step closer to him. His breathing is heavy as it washes over my lips, his hand resting on my hip. I close my eyes and let our foreheads press together. We stay like that for a while. He might be waiting for me to make the move. I’m not waiting for him. Really, I’m not.

“I should go,” he whispers huskily. All I’d need to do is press forward just a little to press our lips together, and then again and again and again, undress him right here and –

“You should,” I admit, my skin tingling. I let my free hand move to his hair, running through the soft, short strands before my hand settles firmly on the back of his neck. I press my nose against his cheek and breathe him in. He turns his head slightly, our mouths perfectly aligned and an inch apart. I pull back only slightly to let my eyes meet his.

He stares at me, brown eyes pouring into me. “Goodnight, Ry,” he whispers. When I say nothing, he steps back, slipping from my grasp. He unlocks the door and walks out with one last look over his shoulder.

I exhale shakily, leaning against the stall wall and bring the joint to my lips again, feeling my body buzzing with excitement and anticipation. I need to tell it that, no, we’re not going down that road anymore. I just resisted temptation for the first time in my life.

The joint dangles between my trembling fingers, the adrenalin rush far greater than the one I get from the shows.

God, he’ll be the death of me.


	7. Don’t Follow Me

The diner is mostly empty apart from the crew this early in the morning. I enter the small establishment after everyone’s already ordered and settled down. I took forever to wake up when the bus came to a stop. We’ve refuelled the bus and now need to refuel ourselves, and I rub the residues of sleep out of my system as I head for the booth with Pete.

I’ve told my bandmates that the thing with Brendon and me is over, but that doesn’t mean Joe wants to be friends or that he isn’t thinking I’m a fag. Brent still looks murderous at the sight of me, and Spencer probably thinks he did the right thing and saved me from the perils of mind-blowing sex. Sure, because that’s really what the problem was.

Pete doesn’t judge as he just wants things to work. He’s pleased with me right now, so I end up sitting across my sworn nemesis since he’s probably the only person who’ll have me.

“We ordered for you already,” Pete says as he sips his coffee, reading a newspaper that’s at least a week old. I nod tiredly and look around the diner, seeing Brendon and William in a booth by themselves across the room, talking and laughing as they smoke cigarettes. Spencer’s by the phones, receiver pressed to his ear.

“Who’s he talking to?”

“Haley,” Pete notes, voice professionally neutral. “Must be easier for him now that he doesn’t have to sneak around so much.”

“True.”

“You’ve got four interviews before lunch today.”

I instantly feel a headache coming on. “Great...”

“That’s what I like to hear!” he says, completely ignoring my blatant sarcasm. He then looks around to make sure we are alone as he lowers his voice. “Listen, I was talking to Joe, and he seems to have calmed down a little. I don’t think he thought you and Brendon had actually put a stop to that nonsense though you said you had, but then we all saw Brendon leaving with that kid last night, and that’s not the first time recently, so...”

“Yeah, I saw them leave too,” I say, which is true. I did. Not the blond kid; that was the night before. Last night it was a black-haired kid, devilishly handsome with broad shoulders. Not in a million years would I have guessed that he swung that way, but he did. It’s funny, really. Before I met Brendon, I didn’t know a single gay man. This summer, I’ve seen more than I fathomed there was in the country. Queers always find each other in crowds, exchange looks, signal each other somehow. When Brendon wants to fuck, he will find that one gay guy within a hundred miles and do him. “Whatever,” I tell Pete. “I really don’t care what he does. I’m not fucking him anymore.”

“I know you’re not. But hey, I can still fire him if you want me to.”

He means it, and the suggestion feels like a punch to my guts. “We’re almost done with the tour so I don’t see any need for that.”

“Just saying,” he replies and, after a pause, adds, “You did the right thing, you know.” I hear the smile in his voice like he actually thinks everything’s working out now.

“I know.”

Spencer joins us in the reject booth shortly after. “How are things back home?” I force myself to ask. He probably thinks it’s sarcasm, me referring to his disaster of a union as ‘home’ and, really, it _is_ sarcasm, but he seems touched that I asked in any case.

“Apparently Suzie’s growing loads,” he says, sounding proud again. Suzie’s a baby. She cries, sleeps, sucks nipples and shits her pants. Is that anything to be proud of? “Haley’s coming to LA for the birthday party Pete’s been organising. Her mother will look after Suzie. It’ll be good for her, getting a break.”

I don’t ask if he and Haley are still on a break and on the brink of divorce, even if Joe, Brent and Pete would be delighted to hear that.

“Great. Look forward to seeing her,” I lie. Spencer knows I’m lying, but even that is making an effort and he knows that.

The food arrives, the waitress placing a cheeseburger and fries under my nose with a chocolate milkshake. Spencer looks at me from across the table. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

“I was gonna get you scrambled eggs, but then Brendon said that’s what you’d want,” he mutters, maybe sounding slightly bitter. I glance to Brendon and William again. William is destroying a napkin and throwing bits of paper at Brendon, who is drinking coffee and giving William the middle finger.

“That’s what I want,” I say before digging into my food.

Pete only gives us fifteen minutes to eat, then begins to usher us all back onto the bus for the drive to Phoenix. Joe, however, has disappeared with one of the waitresses, and Pete curses everyone from Virgin Mary to Joe’s mother as he realises it. I drink half of my milkshake, add vodka, then drink some more as the crew leaves the diner and heads back for the bus.

Joe’s still MIA when I step outside. The sun is coming up in the horizon. It might be a warm day coming ahead, but it doesn’t feel warm yet. I get out a cigarette and walk to the side of the road. We’re in the middle of nowhere, the land flat and stretching miles to all directions, rocky and dead. The road leads to nowhere and everywhere.

I smoke my morning cigarette languidly, watching the only vehicle I can see, a truck in the distance slowly coming our way. What if I waited here until it reached us, then stepped in front of it? What if I moved to lie on the road, waiting for it to get here? I doubt it’d hit me. I’d lie there forever, waiting, and it’d be coming towards me forever too, but we’d never make impact. Not in a hundred years.

I hear a click from my left and see Brendon lowering William’s camera. “Hey,” he says, not walking over but staying the short distance away. I look over my shoulder to the bus, but most of the crew is on the other side and out of sight. Still, I appreciate him taking precautions and not standing too close to me.

“Hi,” I say, shielding my eyes against the sunlight and trying to focus on him. The breeze is ruffling his hair slightly.

“Gorgeous out here, right?”

“Dead.”

“There’s a lot of life out in deserts. You’d be surprised.”

“Grew up in Las Vegas. I’m not surprised.” I lower my hand, still squinting.

He smiles slightly. “So Las Vegas is dead?”

I nod and tip my cigarette, ash falling to the ground. “Died the day I left. Crawled into a corner and withered away...” I take in a deep breath. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Not too far away from Flagstaff, Arizona. I’ve lived there, you know.”

“No shit.” I’m not actually surprised. By now, I’ll believe anything he says.

“That’s where I ended up after I took off. I spent a week hitch-hiking and going in circles. Had to settle down somewhere. Eat. Sleep. Make money to eat and sleep. Buy new clothes. Clothes would’ve been nice.”

“I don’t know. I think you hitch-hiking naked would have had every closet case in the country making U-turns,” I note, and he breaks into a smile.

“That didn’t occur to me. I’ll have to keep it in mind.”

He’s joking about it with me. I’m pretty sure it’s therapeutic to be able to openly talk about the most traumatic experience of his life. It had to be. At least I don’t see him pulling anything out of his hat that would top it. He had no one and nothing. He was a kid. And from what I’ve seen, he still hasn’t managed to get his life properly on track. He doesn’t even have his own place in San Francisco right now. Years later, and he’s still homeless. Still, he’s getting there.

“How are things with the guys?” he now asks, and even though the roadies are around us most of the time, I can see why there’d be an information block. The guys aren’t talking to him. Even Spencer isn’t. I’ve been too busy avoiding the stones being thrown at me to feel guilty about the treatment he’s getting.

“Shit. What do you expect?” I ask, and he shrugs. “You? How are things with the guys?”

He frowns before his expression lightens up. “Oh. You mean those guys.” He chuckles slightly. “Well, William thinks I’ve been acting like a slut to deal with... with, um. You. But it’s not about that. I guess I just took your words to heart when you told me to have the gayest time ever.”

“And every time you come, it’s a middle finger to your dad,” I note, letting a sardonic smile emerge on my lips.

He laughs. “Maybe. I guess. Who knew revenge could be so pleasurable, right? Especially Alma, the blond guy? He had a mouth on him, you would’ve been _amazed_.”

I drop my cigarette and step on it. “Thought Alma was a girl’s name?”

“No, it –” he starts before realisation seems to dawn on him. “Audrey. Or whatever she wants to be called. She told you.”

“About what? Mormon haven? You vanishing? Caught me,” I admit calmly, mostly expecting him to freak the fuck out because that’s what he does whenever things hit too close to home.

This time, however, Brendon only lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. “Should’ve known, really. All this time I thought you were just... observant. Could read me somehow. It was unnerving, really. Turns out, Alma still loves gossip. Or Audrey, whatever. Alma’s a guy’s name traditionally, but the groupie? Audrey? Her parents were radical and gave her a boy’s name. Everyone else thought it was an abomination. They said they just thought she looked like an Alma.”

“Radical? She told me her dad thought Salt Lake City was two steps away from hell. That’s radical?”

“Oh yeah,” Brendon says with a crooked smile. “Most people thought the next house over was two steps from hell.”

I shake my head disbelievingly. How could someone as level-headed as Brendon come out of that mess? Well, not saying that he is. He mostly isn’t. The more I get to know him, the more I realise he’s trying not to drown. Still, he knows who he is. That’s more than most people can say.

“Is that it? Any other secret of mine you don’t want to share with its owner?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Alright. Just... remember what I asked. My history is private, so... Some things you just want to keep to yourself. It’s like people asking you who Jackie is, you know?”

“I guess it’s a bit like that,” I agree quietly.

Yelling coming from the distance breaks our conversation. Sounds like Pete and Joe. “That’s our signal,” I sigh. We both head back for the bus, keeping a distance between ourselves, Brendon fiddling with the camera. The gravel is loud as we walk on it. “Only Joe would pull a stunt like this,” I grumble. “Fucking on the job. Unprofessional if you ask me.”

“What on earth would posses anyone to do such a thing,” he muses, and when our eyes meet, we both break into slightly twisted smiles.

* * *

“Would you say you’re a poet or a lyricist?” the man interviewing Joe and I asks me thoughtfully.

“Um...” I start, trying to organise my thoughts. A poet would not say ‘um’ and a lyricist wouldn’t say ‘um’ either. This is my third interview today, and I can’t concentrate. “Pass?”

Joe, who is sharing the couch with me, huffs indignantly.

“Alright. How about... Well, the tour is named _Jackie, Me_ –”

“Pass. God, pass,” I nearly groan, and when the guy looks alarmed, I sigh. It’s one minor thing, and somehow it’s the one everyone asks. Why are they so hung up about it? Joe wanted the tour to be called the _Sex and Rock_ tour. That had a nice ring to it. Should’ve gone with that. “Sorry, I’m a bit tired today. Ask Joe something.”

Joe turns to look at me in surprise, but he clearly doesn’t object.

“Alright,” the interviewer mutters, giving me a disappointed look. He must have spent ages trying to come up with his ideal questions. The other half of the interview passes as I listen to Joe speaking about touring, the album, his musical vision and personal guitar idols.

Pete comes into the dressing room being used as an interviewing venue just as the designated twenty minutes comes up. He ushers the interviewer out before taking out his notebook, nodding and scratching his head before asking what we want for lunch.

When the pizzas arrive an hour later, Spencer and Brent are still doing their own interviews, apparently stuck answering questions that a radio station let fans call in with. They’re in the building somewhere as the station just sent a guy over to record the interview, but apparently Pete owes this guy a favour or two as he’s letting the inexcusable overtime slide. Joe and I have been sitting in silence since the last interview. I know Pete said that Joe seems to have calmed down a little, but I really don’t see anything different about him.

I’ve had two slices of pizza when Joe says, “Nice of you.”

I stop chewing and glance at him. “What is?”

“Just earlier, letting me handle the interview. I mean, we know I’m better at interview situations than you, but...”

“I just couldn’t be bothered.”

“You can never be bothered, but you still try to answer.”

He’s got a point.

It’s all we say to each other before Brent and Spencer arrive. It’s a small exchange, a lot of nothing, but when it comes to Joe and me, it just might be everything. Maybe Pete’s talked him into this whole truce idea? I know that’s far-fetched, but then again, Joe is kind of insane so who knows?

We soundcheck on time probably for the first time this summer. The crew is on stage with the gear ready, Zack and William taping cables to the stage floor. Brendon’s fiddling with Brent’s pedals, only giving me a side glance when I walk on. He knows how to keep his distance when others are around. We’re not fucking, but we can still chat like we did this morning. That only applies when we’re in private, though.

His words keep swirling in my head. Some things are private, and some things you keep to yourself. And even if he didn’t mean to tell me of his past, he did. He’s dealing with it. I have a feeling even William doesn’t know the story. And if he can let go of his ghosts by forcing them out into the open, then can the rest of us do the same?

We get soundcheck over and done with without any hassle. It’s routine by now, automatic and boring. Once we’re done, Pete says, “Hey, you’ve got time! Why don’t you play something?”

“We just did,” I note.

“Yeah, but like... jam!” Pete offers hopefully, and I exchange glances with my bandmates. We don’t _jam_ anymore. Spencer and Brent there? Not talking to each other. Brent and I? Not talking. Joe and Spencer? Yeah, no communication there either. And Pete wants us to jam.

When the suggestion doesn’t gain any support, Pete’s smile fades slightly. I hand my guitar over to Andy as I head off stage. “You’re trying too hard,” I tell Pete as I pass him, and he looks like he’s between disappointment and anger. “Anyone needs me, I’m taking a nap on the bus.”

“Sure,” he mutters. Well, what did he expect? That Haley comes to LA for the birthday bash, I stop fucking Brendon, and magically it’s all healed and forgotten? It’s not that easy. The lies are only a sign of things not working, anyway, and everyone knowing the score doesn’t change what was wrong in the first place.

The interviews combined with sleep deprivation aren’t making me feel particularly shiny, so I practically dive back into my bed once I get on the bus. I don’t even bother taking my shoes off. I close my eyes tiredly, and I see Brendon and that kid, whatever his name was. Alma. I see the desert and the fans, the thousands of screaming kids in the audience every night. I see skin, perfect, tanned skin, a pair of plump lips, guitar picks and strings and venues and cocaine lines and people people people –

I open my eyes, gulping air. The back lounge is empty except for me, but it doesn’t feel that way. I suddenly feel too nervous to sleep.

I end up going through my notebook instead, tracing over different entries from this summer. I come across numbers I can’t decipher at first, but then realise it’s a tally of the shows. One down, fifty-four to go. I was so focused on that at first, but I stopped counting at some point. Got used to it. Stopped caring. Didn’t mind being on tour. We’ve got less than fifteen shows to go now. Brendon isn’t invited to Europe with us anymore, that’s for certain. Less than fifteen shows, and it’s all over and done with.

We’ll be back in Los Angeles in two days. I’ll be going back home. We’re playing seven nights in a row, LA wanting to welcome back its golden boys. No hotels, no busses – I’ll sleep in my own bed for a week. God, I can’t wait. Jac will be there, the people we know, our friends... Brendon has nothing to do with that world, and it’s making me feel uneasy about how tour life will collide with my actual life. The mixing of the two will hopefully be minimal. I won’t see Brendon apart from the shows, anyway.

I’m glad I put an end to my fling before LA. It could have gotten messy otherwise.

Someone knocks on the door of the nest, and I move to sit up on the bed as I tell them to come in. Brendon opens the door, a duffel bag in his grip. “You got any laundry?”

“What?”

He lifts the bag. “There’s a laundromat down the street, and I’m stuck with this glorious chore. You got anything?”

“Sure.” I get up and start going through the pile of clothes by the bed. He holds the bag open as I shove in stained shirts for him. “Thanks.”

“It’s my job,” he mumbles, unimpressed with the task allocated to him. His eyes linger on me, and I try not to look at his mouth, the way he’s got a few days’ worth of stubble now. “Anyway, I’ll catch you –”

“A dog.”

He frowns. “Come again?”

“Jackie was a dog,” I tell him, not knowing why I answer the question for him when it’s been asked two hundred times before. It’s not a time that I think about anymore, but I had to pay tribute somehow, like naming the tour after a life I once had. Brendon looks curious, so I go on to make him stay a while longer. “When I was a kid, this old woman lived next door to us, Mrs. Roscoe. Jackie was a mongrel. Shaggy, grey fur,” I explain, seeing the silly thing right before my eyes like it was yesterday. “Jackie was old, just like Mrs. Roscoe. They had this ancient feel to them, and Jackie always understood what Mrs. Roscoe said. It was like Jackie wasn’t a dog, but human. It was pretty creepy sometimes.”

“So Jackie’s the dog, the lady is Mrs. Roscoe, and then there’s you,” he lists slightly disbelievingly before his lips twist upwards at the corners. “God, I always... thought it was, like. A girl who’d given you good head or something.” I scoff at his words because I’m not that shallow. When it comes to music, everything has meaning. “Why did you name the tour after them?”

“I don’t know. Commemoration, maybe. Mrs. Roscoe let me come around after school, and I did my homework on her living room floor, eating homemade cookies while she played piano. I’d never really been exposed to music until her, so... I think I owe this to her. Jackie too. She used to bark and howl whenever Mrs. Roscoe played the piano. It was like she was singing along.”

Brendon gives me a genuine, warm smile. “Sounds pretty great.”

“It was,” I admit. “The best... God, the best time of my life was when I was ten. How sad is that?”

“That’s not sad,” he says softly. “It’s nice that the tour is named after something good like that, you know?”

“Yeah...” I nod, my voice fading out. I blink and see Jackie lying in the middle of the street.

Brendon looks hesitant. “It was... good. Wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t real.” Brendon’s brow furrows, and I swallow hard and press on. If I told him half of it, I can’t omit the rest. “I usually stayed with them until Dad came back from work. That’s when I snuck back to our house. Dad didn’t have a clue I went over there. He wouldn’t have let me, anyway, thought Mrs. Roscoe was an old hag meddling in other people’s lives. But it was like I had a family in the afternoons. Had my own dog. Had a grandmother. Mrs. Roscoe used to sing these old French songs from the twenties. I kept thinking that maybe she’d adopt me somehow. Stupid, I know.”

“That’s not stupid,” Brendon says quietly.

I glance at him briefly. “It was. Good things never happen. I know that.”

His expression turns serious. “What happened?” His voice is careful, like he can somehow see it on my face.

I shrug, trying to fight off the sickening feeling in my guts. “Mrs. Roscoe always kept Jackie loose because it’s not like she would’ve run away. And then Dad... He was drinking and driving. He always –” My voice dies in my throat, and my hands curl into fists. I saw it happen. “Jackie didn’t die right away. She was lying in the middle of the street. I think her spine…” I try to explain, but only end up shaking my head because I still don’t know. “She was trying to get up. There was blood, and. You think a dog that size wouldn’t bleed much, but she... And she couldn’t understand why she couldn’t get up anymore. Her eyes. She was panicking. And I just had to keep soothing her, petting her, saying it was okay, and Dad was yelling at me to leave her be and come inside, but I- I couldn’t leave her. She was my dog.”

I stop, a shuddery breath leaving my lips. I blink more than necessary. I haven’t talked about it since it happened. “It took her a few minutes to die.”

Brendon remains perfectly silent. I clear my throat. “Mrs. Roscoe died a few weeks later. It was like… after Jackie was gone, she couldn’t exist either. Like old couples, you know?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, tone cautious like he’s talking to someone who’s dying. But I’m not. Not yet.

“Anyway, it turned out that Mrs. Roscoe had put me in her will, wanted me to have the piano. But Dad wouldn’t hear of it, said we had no room for a fucking piano,” I say, quoting the man himself, the words as bitter on my tongue as they were when I was eleven. “So I didn’t get it. And after that, when school finished, I just went straight home. I had nowhere else to go anymore. But I... I still remember when it was just Jackie, me and this lady.”

“Hey,” he whispers, and I realise I’m shivering. I quickly wipe my cheeks and try to smile as if to say it’s nothing, no big deal. Brendon’s eyes are full of sympathy and something deeper. His hand lands on my arm, squeezing gently. “I think Mrs. Roscoe and Jackie would be damn proud to see that you made it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Look at you. You’re famous. Everyone knows you, and you’re a damn talented musician.”

“So I can write songs and get recognised on the street. Great. Where does that get me?” I ask angrily. My eyelashes are wet against my cheeks.

I think Brendon realises that I’ve never talked about this to anyone before. I never even told Spencer about them because I wanted to have something for myself. My own secret. Now I realise that ‘secret’ is just a word given for uncomfortable truths we don’t want to share in fear of what they say about us.

“You’ve done more with your life than I have,” he notes.

“But you’ve lived yours more.”

“Measured by what?” he asks, and I’m not sure. Laughter. Courage.

His hand moves up my arm to my shoulder, fingers brushing against my neck. “If you honestly think you’re not living, then it’s not like you’ve run out of time yet,” he whispers quietly.

Somehow, right then, he feels like the only thing in the world that’s ever made any sense to me.

My hand curls into a fist in the back of his shirt when he moves in to hug me, and I cling to him, breathing him in. I can feel the tension draining out as I focus on how warm he feels, how solid, by now familiar too. He’s tiny. He’s just small, but somehow he has more in him than the rest of us combined. The hug leaves no space between us, and I don’t want to let go. His fingers brush the nape of my neck, nose pressing to the crook. I can’t remember the last time I got a hug.

When he pulls back, he brushes curls of hair behind my ear. “You okay?” he asks quietly, and I nod, trying to pull myself together. He reaches up to press a kiss on my forehead, short and warm. He could have gone for the lips. He didn’t, but somehow the kiss is more intimate because of it.

“Laundry,” he says, and I look to our feet where the duffel bag is. He must’ve dropped it.

“I should go argue about the setlist or something,” I say hoarsely, fidgeting slightly. I hate how calm and composed he is, nothing from the angry man I saw a few days before in an alleyway, trying to pick a fight with the wall. He doesn’t have to tell me that my old man was a drunken asshole. I know that, anyway. But he keeps smiling at me with his eyes, like he’s seen something I missed.

“Guess we’re even again. We know each other’s secrets,” he points out. “And I promise I will be a better secret keeper than Spencer was.”

“Yeah, me too,” I manage to laugh.

He picks up the bag, but somehow his free hand brushes against mine, and my fingers loop around his wrist for no reason, and then our palms press together as our fingers entwine. His hand is dry and warm in mine, making my heart beat fast. He doesn’t look at our hands, like he’s not even aware, though I know he is. He is damn aware of it.

We walk through the bunk area and the lounge slowly, coming to a stop by the driver’s seat. He presses the button on the dashboard that opens the doors, and only then do our hands separate.

* * *

It’s a gorgeous night when we arrive to LA, mostly because the band has renewed energy. None of the roadies are local so they don’t get to go home. Joe keeps talking about his purple one piece he forgot to pack and how he will totally wear it tomorrow, while Brent addresses me for the first time in days to enquire if Jac will come to the LA shows, and Spencer seems to look forward to not having to be around us.

It’s also my birthday and has been for the past two hours. Twenty-four years old. The guys patted my shoulders when the clock turned to midnight, and there’s a huge party that’s being thrown for Spencer and me in the evening since his birthday is just two days after mine. We haven’t done presents in years, but William gave me a mini bottle of vodka that he probably stole from a hotel. I thought it was surprising coming from him. I’m relatively sure he should hate my guts.

William is now driving us through the night from San Diego to Los Angeles. Zack’s not with us since he’s spending the night in San Diego at his own house, but he will be in LA by the afternoon. We’re all exhausted but cramped in the lounge and impatiently waiting to get home. Pete is looking at his papers, saying, “Right, William, Brendon and Andy will be staying in the hotel near the venue, and –”

“I don’t need to stay there,” Brendon intervenes. “I know a guy in LA that I’ll be staying with.”

“Oh. That’s excellent! Good, we’ll be saving some money with that!” Pete says happily. I’m relatively sure we could be swimming in money, and Pete would still be stingy.

The bus comes to a stop outside Capitol at three in the morning. Joe is the first to take his suitcases and one of his guitars and disappear into the night, and we disperse from there. Brent’s got a ride waiting, some friend of his, maybe dropping him off at Jac’s apartment. He doesn’t have to worry about beating me to it, and I don’t have to worry about him telling Jac about Brendon. Pete’s made it very clear that no one is to know about it except for those who already do. Brent will respect that because, no matter what he thinks is going on with him and Jac, he knows he needs this band. Just like I do. But he’s also said that if he catches me and Brendon at it, he will go straight to Jac. Sure. It’s over with us, so that’s an idle threat. Spencer says that he won’t get any sleep because Haley’s flying in early, and he needs to clean up his house before she gets there. William and Brendon are smoking by the bus when my taxi arrives, and I wave goodbye before slumping in the backseat.

Even if we have to go back on the road for one last week after the LA shows, this feels like a homecoming in a lot of ways. We’re an inch away from being done. The taxi driver recognises me, and I sign the book he’s reading as it’s the only signable thing he has.

When I step into my apartment, I flick on the lights and stop to take in the view. The place is like I left it except dustier. I don’t remember the last time I was here because I was on some heavy shit back then. The mess isn’t too bad, but I’ve got four guitars lying around the living room and empty beer bottles in almost every corner. Usually I keep my instruments in place – it’s the only thing I’m strict about.

I leave my two suitcases by the couch and go to the bedroom, turning the lights on. At least the bed is made, the sheets looking clean. When I go to the kitchen, I’m greeted by a pile of dishes in the sink. The fridge is empty like I knew it’d be, and I go through the cupboards to find something as a four AM snack. I’m halfway through a can of tuna when there’s a knock on my door. Fuck. A bit of banging and walking around, and the damn lady next door has come to complain. Jesus fuck, I will kill her one of these days.

I go to open the door, angry that, after a summer of absence, that witch instantly wants to bitch about something. I probably give her a sense of purpose. God, that’s just sad.

I wrench the door open angrily. “Look –” I stop dead when my eyes land on Brendon, who is standing in the quiet corridor with his bag dangling from his grip.

“Hi,” he says. I only stare. “So... when I said I know a guy in LA? That’s you.”

I stare some more, having been rendered speechless. He looks a bit nervous, though he’s smiling. “Can I come in then?”

I laugh disbelievingly, trying to get over the initial surprise. Him. In this world. “How do you know where I live?”

“Looked at Pete’s address book.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him. Sneaky little thing. “And you’re assuming that I will let you stay with me?”

“I’m hoping, yeah.”

He gives me a mildly flirtatious smile, which instantly pulls and twists at my guts, making it hard to focus. “Bren, you know that’s not a good idea.”

“I really don’t,” he counters and pushes past me into the living room. “So this is the eagle’s nest, huh?” he asks as he shrugs off his jacket, placing it on the back of the couch. “I like that armchair. Love the orange.” He puts his bag down next to my suitcases. “Wow, your guitars. I thought the eight you had on the road was all you got.”

“No, I’ve got around twenty-five.” I close the door and watch him look around the living room wonderingly. He seems curious and intrigued. “Brendon,” I say again, trying to get through to him.

“What?” he asks, having picked up a stack of records off the coffee table, now flicking through them.

“There’s only one bed.”

He looks up at me, face perfectly neutral. “I’ll take the couch.”

“How do you –” I start before swallowing the rest of the question. How does he expect me to sleep when he’s that close to me and there’s no one else around?

He smirks at me. “Don’t assume so much, Ross. I want a place to sleep and, as much as I love William, I need a break from him or I’ll go insane. That couch looks comfy enough. Just need to clear away the beer bottles.” He starts cleaning like he’s lived here forever, asking me if I’ve got extra pillows and going to my bedroom to get himself the extra duvet as he comments on the paintings I’ve got on my walls, the lamp and the curtains. “I really like your place.”

“Jac did most of the decorating.”

He glances at me briefly. “She’s got taste.”

Miraculously, he’s turned the filthy looking couch into a pretty inviting crash spot within five minutes.

“Just for tonight,” I give in with a sigh. Can’t send him out into the night, can I? “Jac will be coming here and...”

“Just for tonight. I get it,” he assures me.

When he pulls off his t-shirt, I make a quick exit to my bedroom before the mental image gets stuck with me. It’s already stuck with me. Now I’m stuck wondering how to jerk off inconspicuously when he’s just behind the door. This is not like the bus where everyone can hear, when the bunks have practically zero soundproofing, and we will get caught.

Now, he’s here. In my home. The one place where I never really pictured him. And no one could find out what we do or don’t do tonight, and he knew that walking in. He claims he’s just taking over the couch, but he’s taken over all of the rooms, every corner and crook, and I lie on my bed in the dark, listening to my breathing and trying to decide if knowing he is just on the other side of the door is comforting or terrifying.

* * *

In the morning, I slip back into the apartment to find Brendon like I left him: fast asleep on the couch, eyes shut and mouth parted as he breathes evenly. I stop by the couch to make sure he’s still there, and if I stay watching him sleep just for a little while, it’s because my thoughts strayed and I forgot I was even there.

I try to be quiet as I move around the kitchen, frying myself an egg and reading about the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in the paper, tracing the text with my forefinger as I alternate between smoking and egg-frying. I have no idea what’s been happening in the world lately. Touring isn’t in any way connected to other events, and it’s nice to catch up even if I don’t care about some island state across the world. It reminds me that there’s more than this.

“Morning,” Brendon’s voice comes from behind me. I turn around, slightly nervous. He lifts a tired hand as he yawns, bed hair sticking all over and wearing nothing but a white tank top with grey briefs. He looks at the cooker behind me. “Shouldn’t I be making you breakfast?”

“No,” I say, confused. “The egg’s for me. I got you Freakies and milk.”

“I meant that it’s your birthday. You should have birthday breakfast served to you in bed.”

I don’t want to think of Brendon serving me anything in bed. No. Not having that mental image.

“Can I grab a shower?” he asks, and my mind moves from birthday blowjobs to him naked with water rolling down his form, past his shoulders, down his back, over his ass.

“Sure. Was the couch alright?”

“Yeah, it was fine. Have you slept?”

No. I dozed off a few times, but I haven’t actually slept in two or three days.

“Yeah, I –” A knock on the door interrupts my lying to him because if I tell him, he will get that half-worried look on his face that I don’t like seeing. “Give me a sec.”

I turn the cooker off, the fried egg frizzling on the pan as I head to the door, fully prepared to confront my neighbour and tell her that fucking talking before nine AM cannot be against the regulations because she does it all the damn time when she calls her sister in Florida at seven AM and complains loudly and wall-piercingly about her hip when _I’m_ hungover.

But again it’s not her. Maybe she died? Whatever her condition might be, I’m more concerned that I’m looking at my girlfriend. “Hey there, stranger,” Jac beams as she gets on her toes to place a hat on my head. “Happy birthday,” she purrs and presses our lips together for a brief peck.

“I thought – You didn’t say you were coming over,” I manage when I let her in because I _have_ to let her in. I take off the hat she put on my head, clearly a new design of hers: buttons on the crown. Interesting.

“Are you kidding? Of course I was coming!” she smiles brightly, then nods at the hat. “That’s your birthday present. Do you like it? It’s got your initials in the sweatband,” she explains, passionate about her designs as she always is. She takes a long look at me. “God, you look like _shit_ , baby.”

“Touring, you know how –” I start, but Jac’s eyes are fixed behind me. I turn to see Brendon in the kitchen doorway. Right. Great. Fuck. “Jac, you remember Brendon. He crashed on the couch.” I motion at the pillow and covers on the couch, thankful for the evidence.

“You’re the gay guy,” Jac says, and she’s not trying to be rude – I wouldn’t have considered the comment in any way rude at the start of the tour because Jac is just stating a fact – but she comes across as rude, anyway.

“That’s me,” Brendon says slowly.

“I thought the roadies were staying in a hotel?” Jac now asks me.

“They are. William and Brendon just had a disagreement, thought it was best to let things cool off,” I explain before adding to Brendon, “If you want to take that shower, then go ahead. There should be a clean towel somewhere in there.”

“Merci beaucoup,” he says, his choice of words sarcastic. I’m pretty sure French is the official language of sarcasm, anyway, and I try to focus on my girlfriend as he crosses the living room and enters the bathroom.

“So much for loud reunion sex,” Jac pouts at me. Reunion sex. Right. Of course. How could I forget that tradition? “Can you throw him out?” she asks, looking at the closed bathroom door.

“He’s taking a shower,” I note as I move to put the hat on the coffee table.

“I don’t remember you ever being charitable,” she says sourly.

“Feel sorry for him, that’s all. A homeless faggot, fought with the only friend he has,” I mutter angrily, which seems to throw Jac off. Great. That’s not what I want either. When did she and I stop getting along? We used to laugh at people together, relate to each other’s chaos somehow. Now I just feel on edge and irritated.

“But he will be leaving soon, right? For the venue, I mean.”

“Maybe. Yeah. I guess. I don’t- I mean that I don’t know. I don’t keep track of his damn timetable,” I snap, and Jac frowns as she approaches me carefully.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

Everything. This whole scenario of Jac and Brendon both here, sardonic and mocking. There isn’t enough room in this building or block for both of them. “Nothing. I’m just stressed, the tour’s been insane. I haven’t slept in days, you know how I get. Brendon will probably fuck off in a minute, and then I’ll just go to bed. Need some sleep. And that’ll bore you, and I don’t mean to bore you. You should go out, meet your friends and- and we’ll see each other tonight at the venue. Alright?”

I know I rambled, but she looks sympathetic. She knows. She gets it. “Alright. But you better sleep and not just scribble lyrics or play around with guitars because I know you!” she says warningly, pointing a finger at me, and I break into a genuine smile. She tries to keep me on track sometimes. Most of the time not, but right now I appreciate her words.

“As you wish,” I give in, walking over and pulling her into my arms habitually.

She smiles up at me. “Get some sleep.” Her hands press against my chest. She’s got such small hands. “Old man,” she adds mischievously.

“Hey,” I say warningly and slap her ass. She squeaks and bursts out laughing, her eyes shining. I grin at her and note, “I’m only twenty-fucking-four.”

“So old,” she says dramatically before she reaches up to kiss me again. It lasts longer than the first kiss, and I let our lips move over each other’s, trying to remember how this works. And it works. For now.

When Jac’s at the door, she glances towards the bathroom where I can hear the shower running. “You should be careful with that. Sure you don’t want anyone saying you hang out with homos,” she points out before blowing me a kiss and leaving.

The second the door closes, I exhale shakily, the smile vanishing from my lips. Fuck. Fuck, that is not good. It’s coming together, tour life and real life, mixing when it’s the last thing I ever wanted. Maybe she’s right and I am old. Too old for this mess, anyway.

The shower stops running, and I look to the closed door, trying not to picture what’s behind it or who will walk out shortly. I lied. Brendon won’t be needed at the venue until a few hours from now. I sent away my girlfriend, who I haven’t seen in weeks, to enjoy a cold fried egg as Brendon munches on Freakies. Assuming we get back into the kitchen and don’t end up in the bedroom, the couch, the floor, because I honestly don’t know how much more restraint I can muster.

I walk towards the bathroom door without meaning to, like I’m hunting. My fingernails press into my palms as I chew on my bottom lip. Brendon knew what he was doing when he invited himself over. He knew.

The door opens suddenly, causing me to instantly back away, adrenalin rushing through my veins. Brendon steps out, a white towel wrapped around his waist, hair wet, droplets rolling down his neck. He stops at the sight of me, confusion on his face. “Where’s Jac?”

“Left,” I manage, eyes roaming over his exposed form, and then I’ve walked up to him. I push him back and slam him against the wall, one of my hands moving to the back of his neck and pulling him closer, our lips instantly attaching. His skin is wet and slick, and he gasps against my mouth before his tongue meets mine hungrily. His hands land on my hips and he pulls me closer, pushing his crotch against mine, offering himself. The kiss is messy and full of saliva, and I’m going insane with how much I want him. He’s soaking my shirt, Jesus Christ, he could have towelled off properly, but he didn’t know that I’d – No. He knew. He responds without hesitation, and he knew.

I retreat as abruptly as I dove in. He is panting, lips reddened and pupils blown.

“Ryan,” he breathes out huskily. It’s a command and a plea and a question.

“I need a shower.” A fucking cold one. “Don’t... Don’t follow me.”

I push past him into the bathroom as he tries to catch his breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I’m not sure who he can taste.

* * *

It’s the first time six thousand people wish me happy birthday. Joe informs the crowd that it’s time to sing for me, and they all do. It’s not that Joe wants to celebrate my birth – far from it – but the kids front row have been throwing gifts on stage throughout the show, Pete’s informed us of the wave of presents sent to the label, and the fans queuing outside before the opening of the doors spent an hour chanting birthday wishes.

It doesn’t take the crowd long to sing the song, but it feels like torture, anyway. All of the focus is on me. I don’t deserve it. I’m not doing this to be famous. I’d much rather play them a song I wrote than have them glorify me, but I have to grit my teeth and bear it.

Somehow it feels like I’m being canonised.

When their singing comes to an end, cheering and happy that they can share this with me, I say, “Thanks, you sound great,” into the microphone, averting my gaze and stepping on the pedals nervously to get ready for _Alienation_. They recognise the riff and just about explode. Singles always get recognised more.

“Yeeeeeah!” Joe says into his microphone, probably to rally up the enthusiasm but ruining the start in my opinion. I turn my back to the crowd like I often do, seeking refuge by the drum kit. It used to be because of the soothing effect Spencer has on me. Now it’s just habit.

The show is intense. The crowd is crazier than usual, maybe because it’s a home crowd and they perceive us as belonging to them somehow. Fans have tried to get on stage on four separate occasions, and now I see one girl actually managing it, catching her in my peripheral vision. She climbs on stage between Joe and me in the middle of the instrumental break, but before the security staff reaches her, Zack’s floored her, having dashed from the sidelines. I ignore the way my heart jumped for a second. She was coming right at me.

I focus on picking, trying to ignore the way she kicks and screams as Zack and one of the security guys drag her away.

When we finish the show, everyone seems to be on a high. “That was good, right?” Spencer asks when we get off stage, but I’m not sure if he’s asking only in hopes of impressing Haley, who got a cold and forced reception from the rest of us when Spencer arrived with her. As far as she’s concerned, we’ve stolen her husband. As far as we’re concerned, she’s a scheming bitch who probably got pregnant on purpose and then stole our drummer.

“I forgot how loud these concerts were,” she says, covering her ears.

“I like ‘em loud!” Jac exclaims, and I smirk. Drunk already.

“That was a good show,” Brendon says from behind the girls. Our eyes meet briefly. Must have been if he says so. He’s seen them all.

The birthday party is bigger than I imagined. It’s not just for me but Spencer too. I figured Pete would rent a club of some sort, but he seems to have gone all out and ignored the money factor. Then again, the house fit for a king amongst the other palaces in Beverly Hills was probably arranged through connections, and Pete might not even be paying that much for it. The house is currently for sale, and I wonder who used to live in it.

It’s a warm night and most of the guests are outside, in the pool, on deck chairs, drinking and dancing and getting fucked as heavy rock blares from the speakers. It seems like LA’s entire music scene has showed up.

It’s surreal to be back. Suddenly, I know everyone again. After a summer of not knowing what, who, when or why, it feels dreamlike to pass through a crowd, lifting my beer and saying forced niceties, a slur of, “Hey, Frank! Hi, Laurel, how you doing? Dave, good to see you!”

I don’t mean any of it. Frank’s a dick, Laurel’s a slut and Dave’s an asshole. But they all want to be friends with me eagerly, and it’s one of the rare times I realise how huge the band has become or is becoming. There’s cake too, one for me and one for Spencer, and I end up licking whipped cream off my fingers before going back to the vodka.

It’s not a birthday party if I don’t vomit before two o’clock.

In a few hours I end up talking more than I have all summer, but it doesn’t relax me. I see how they react differently to me now, having gone from “that musician” to “the musician”. Spencer would have the right to say that all of these people want something. Jac’s been by my side for most of the evening, but now I seem to have lost her. I see Brent, though, so it can’t be that. Joe’s over there, so she’s not moved onto him yet either.

“Sorry, I need to get some air,” I tell my audience that is insisting I tell tour stories. I keep talking about my arrest in Philly since it’s the only remotely interesting thing I can come up with that I can share. The things I actually find interesting, like breakdowns in Salt Lake City alleyways, Brendon sinking to his knees and blowing me on the bus after yet another fight I had with Joe, the first time that he and I... The things that have actually stuck with me are all things I can’t share.

I walk back outside and hear someone calling my name. To my surprise, it’s Brendon, who is standing a bit further off with a guy I don’t recognise. He motions me over, and I stop to see if there’s any of the band or crew around. No. Good. I quirk an eyebrow as I approach them, convincing myself that I just mean to say hello. I haven’t seen Brendon since we got here. The guy with him has dirty blond hair to his shoulders, framing a youngish and handsome face. He looks excited and star struck at the sight of me.

“I said I knew you, but he didn’t believe me,” Brendon explains with a smirk, and it’s just a smirk but it’s so much more than that.

“Ryan Ross!” the kid says, grabbing my hand and shaking it energetically. He looks around eighteen or nineteen. “I’m such a big fan, so –”

“So’s everyone,” I note because I have heard that exact same phrase fifty times tonight. “What you up to?” I ask Brendon.

He shrugs. “Trying to find a place to crash.”

“Ah.” I take a look at the guy again before my eyes flicker back to Brendon. “And how’s that working out for you?”

“It’s working,” he says slyly.

Clearly so.

The kid looks unnerved. Brendon’s practically just outed him as gay in my presence. I can feel Brendon’s eyes on me, the way they’ve been all day. I remember the first time he showed me The Look this summer, the way it made my guts twist. The effect doesn’t wear off.

“Does anyone want something to drink?” the kid asks a bit nervously. “Beers?”

Brendon and I nod, and he sets out to find some. “Having a good birthday?” Brendon asks.

“Pretty good, yeah.” For some reason, my words sound dark, like instead of what I said, I said something different, something that results in him spread out beneath me. “Seems like you’re doing alright for yourself too. Keeping busy with...” I motion after the blond guy.

“Kenneth.”

“Sure.” I take another look around, but still don’t spot anyone who knows of our affair. “Make sure someone sees you two leaving together. Preferably Brent.”

Brendon snorts. “I don’t fuck to fix your problems.” It was just a suggestion. The more people see us not together, the better. Which, really, means I shouldn’t be talking to him right now either. “You know Kenneth said he’s always wanted to do you,” he adds casually, not breaking the eye contact between us.

“Something you two have in common, then. Sure that’ll keep you two talking for hours.”

“I didn’t always want you.”

“But you do now.”

Brendon smiles, and he somehow manages to make it look innocent though it’s anything but. “You can’t kiss a boy like you did this morning, Ross, and not have him horny out of his mind for the rest of the day.”

I’ve figured as much. Spent breakfast wanting to leap across the table, soundcheck trying not to fuck him in the middle of the stage, and the show willing myself not to ravish him whenever he hurried on stage to hand me or Brent the next instrument.

He’s practically undressing me with his eyes. I force myself not to let it get to me. “We’re still not fucking, you know.”

He smirks. “Yeah, I’m working on that.”

It sounds like a promise to my ears.

Kenneth comes back with beers, and I take the one he offers me before telling them to have a nice night. Kenneth looks severely disappointed, but I focus on walking away while I still can. Before I’m in too deep.

* * *

But there’s a loophole. There is a huge, gaping loophole that enables me to pull Kenneth in for a dirty kiss. He tastes like cigarettes as he kisses me back wildly. My erection is killing me, and I need to fuck before I go insane, have this kid on my bed on all fours, gasping for breath when I push in without warning.

The loophole isn’t the realisation that I can fuck other men apart from Brendon while abiding the rules set out by my bandmates. It’s not that I plan to bury my cock into the sweet, tight ass of this groupie – a male groupie, we get them sometimes but in the past we’ve laughed them out of the room and called them fags. I’d classify Kenneth as one, anyway.

No, the loophole is the second pair of lips pressing to the back of my neck. Kenneth is between me and the wall in my living room, my crotch pressing against his while another body presses itself to my back.

I drank too much, but I know what I’m doing. I know, I know...

I turn my head to meet the lips of the man behind me.

“Brendon,” I manage, and Brendon responds with a groan as our mouths press together, one of his hands snaking to my front and firmly cupping my erection. Kenneth is sucking on my neck, unbuttoning my shirt.

That’s the loophole. I’m not fucking Brendon – I’m fucking this kid, and if Brendon’s here too, then okay. If Brendon’s here for me to touch and kiss, then alright. That’s a coincidence, really, and we’re not fucking each other. We’ve stopped doing that. The last time I was inside him was states ago – I’ve been a good boy, it’s my birthday, and I deserve this.

I don’t deserve the thousand-headed sing-along, but I deserve two men in my bed.

I step back from between them, and they instantly move towards each other. Brendon kisses Kenneth hungrily.

I back further into the apartment, unbuttoning my shirt the rest of the way and keeping my eyes on them. Kenneth laughs against Brendon’s mouth, and Brendon looks so good like that, smirking as he deepens the kiss. Their attention quickly moves back to me as I’m standing by the door of the bedroom, watching them, one hand inside my underwear and rubbing my aching cock.

“Fuck, _Ryan Ross_ ,” Kenneth practically whimpers. He makes his way over, dropping onto his knees in front of me, hands trembling as they land on my hips. He starts to lick the skin around my navel, heading south, moaning to himself.

My hands move to his long hair, trying not to grin at how fucking eager he is to have me. Brendon walks over to us, pulling his shirt over his head.

Deep down, I knew that it was a matter of time. We’ve spent days circling each other, doing anything but actually letting the situation turn into a fuck fest, and then all it takes is one party, one drink too many, an opportunity to take off without being noticed, and we end up here. But I am not breaking any rules. I’m not.

Brendon stares at me wantonly as Kenneth takes my cock into his mouth. I hiss at the sensation, and the kid groans, wanting more.

Brendon stops in front of us, and I reach for his arm, keeping my other hand firmly in Kenneth’s messy, blond hair. Brendon lets me pull him in, our lips meeting again. The kiss is deep and passionate, his hand on my chin keeping me in place as he controls the kiss. Maybe this is his birthday present. Maybe he got Kenneth for me.

We pull back for air, and Brendon’s teeth are scraping my earlobe, his breathing hot against my skin. Kenneth takes my cock in all the way, relaxing his jaw like a pro despite his age, and I groan as I slip into his throat. I fist his hair, turning my head to meet Brendon’s gaze. He whispers, “What took you so long?” before leaning in for a dirty kiss.


	8. Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Please note that this chapter contains dub-con.

The mattress I’m lying on bounces, followed by hushed voices, but I pay no attention to them. The first seconds of consciousness make me wholly preoccupied with the way my head is pounding and the way my limbs feel tired and sore. I stretch slightly, feeling content in the warmth of the bed and ignoring the sounds of doors opening and closing before it gets quiet again.

The mattress dips, the covers shifting, and then legs brush against my own. They’re not slender or shaven. They’re not a woman’s legs. I force one tired eye open.

Brendon’s under the covers with me, having propped himself on one elbow. He’s gazing down at me, brown hair sticking out everywhere, looking warm and soft even if he’s got angry bite marks on his neck. He looks well fucked, and it looks fucking good on him. “You should sleep more,” he whispers, reaching out and pushing hair from my forehead.

“Hmm,” I manage, turning to lie on my back, grabbing his hand and pulling, and he gets the hint and lies down, pressing against my side. God, he’s so gloriously naked.

I’m not shocked he’s here. Even as I slept, I was aware of him, knowing what I had done.

Weak morning light is coming in through the windows. From what I can see, we’ve made a mess of the room. He seems content nuzzling my collarbone, and I’m too tired to move.

Huh. This is nice.

“Did we fuck?” I ask groggily. I know what we did, but there are gaps in my memory. Brendon lifts his head and quirks an eyebrow at me like the answer to my question is pretty obvious. “I mean, did I fuck you?” I say with a slight roll of my eyes.

“No.”

I didn’t fuck him. Well done me.

I rub my face with one hand, trying to get the sleep out of my system, but it’s hard when he’s warm and solid against me. My stomach churns uncomfortably, alcohol welling in it and burning. God, since when have I had hangovers like this? I need to get back into the habit of drinking to stop feeling like this the morning after.

“Where’s the other one?” I ask, realising the kid’s absence only now.

“I sent him home.”

“That’s good,” I sigh. I can smell the guy on my skin. I can smell Brendon too. Memories start flooding my mind – hands, mouths, groans, touches.

He looks at me incredulously. “You don’t think we had sex last night?”

“Not if we didn’t fuck each other,” I note, ignoring how this, the two of us in bed right now, pushed together, touching, feels a lot more significant than fucking.

He presses closer to me, and I let my fingers skim over his left collarbone before focusing on the bruises on his neck. Probably the kid. Kids like doing that, marking the people they fuck. God, he better not have marked me. My neck doesn’t feel sore, though.

Brendon asks, “What about when he was on his hands and knees, sucking me off as you took him from behind?” I instantly get the full visual in my head. I remember that. “That wasn’t us having sex?”

“Not like we made each other come,” I manage to reply, trying to control the wave of want that now competes with the slight nausea. I told the guys I was done with Brendon, I told him as much, and most of all I told it to myself. And then I do this and don’t regret it. I can’t even bring myself to pretend that I do.

“What about when he fucked me and you jerked me off? The way we kissed?” he goes on, and there is no way he can describe the events of last night without making me aroused. He studies my face intently. “You’ve never jerked me off before, you know.”

“That still doesn’t qualify,” I say, remembering what he felt like leaking onto my palm, and god, he was so fucking hard.

“But what if watching you get blown pushed me over the edge?” he now asks slowly, voice predatory. I feel him getting hard against me. His hand slides over my chest, warm and smooth, moving down to my stomach under the covers. “Seeing your long, thick dick slipping between his swollen lips...” His fingertips brush over my pubic hair, but he doesn’t move his hand lower.

I try to keep my head on, recalling how he fucked the kid while I got my cock sucked. “There’s no way you could’ve actually seen that from where you were.”

He gives me a dirty smile. “I’ve got a vivid imagination. Some things I didn’t have to imagine, though, like your mouth all slack, fisting his hair, pushing his head further down...”

“You _are_ horny in the mornings,” I say breathlessly.

“Happens if you’re in the bed with me,” he counters, sounding so fucking sexy as he leans in.

“Brendon,” I say warningly, but he seems happy to ignore me. His lips brush over mine, our noses bumping together. His hand has moved to the base of my cock and clearly intends to go further. “I’m telling you to stop,” I whisper against his lips.

“You’re always telling me to stop. We both know it’s not what you want.”

My lips part as we make contact, and my fingers tangle in his hair as I pull him down, deepening the kiss instantly. He’s hard against me, and there’s not a single thing I don’t want to do to him right now, lock the door, ignore the world, and just keep him here, secret and hidden. I will myself to forget that there are consequences. There are always consequences.

His hand moves lower, grabbing my cock. The lack of hesitance in his movements suggests that it’s something he’s used to doing by now, but then he exhales shakily against my mouth, and it’s like he’s driven as insane by it as he was the first time. His kisses are deep and slow, and I push my tongue to meet his. He is slowly fisting my cock, more like saying hello than actually intent on jerking me off. It’s nice, in a way, and it’s doing wonders for my hangover. Lazy morning kisses, unrushed sex, kind of like something you might do with a person you care about.

I let my mouth travel to his neck, kissing over the bruises there. “You looked so hot fucking that kid, you know,” I tell him, enjoying the way he gasps when I suck on bruised skin. God, he really did, his hips snapping forwards as he got close...

“So did you,” he groans.

“Though,” I say, pulling back and relaxing on the bed, “watching him fuck you...” I trail off, not having the words for what it did to me.

Brendon pulls the covers off of us and moves to straddle me. My mind blanks out as I look at him: perfect, tanned skin with a few bruises that might be my hands, or someone else’s hands, smooth chest, flat stomach, muscular enough just for it to show, protruding hipbones, a flushed, hard cock proudly in view. His hands roam over my skin lazily, fingers circling my nipples and then dancing over my ribs. There’s no rush, and I reach down to touch his cock, fingers skimming over his length and then below to cup his balls. He bites on his lower lip and moves against my hand, eyes fixed on my erection with what looks like curiosity. I’m wholly focused on him, and he seems to be lost in studying me. My hand moves further, over his perineum until my index finger presses against his hole. He feels a little wet from last night, and he chokes down a whimper.

He doesn’t seem to let me distract him, though, as he keeps his pensive eyes on my erection. I give up and pull my hand back, arching an eyebrow at the way he’s looking at my dick. “What you doing there?”

“Exploring,” he replies, rubbing his palm against my shaft. “Your cock kinda curves to the left a little. Just noticed.”

“Fascinating,” I note, and when he grins at me, I pull him down from his wrist and roll us over on the bed. Hair falls over his eyes, and I brush it off, taking in the features of his face, his perfectly shaped mouth and plump lips. “Hi.”

“Hey yourself,” he returns, voice irresistible. “Are we fucking now?”

“Just a little bit,” I amend, diving in for a kiss.

To my surprise, he instantly takes control. He rolls us over, looming over me and placing wet, open kisses on my skin wherever he can. I expose my neck for him, and when he bites down, I don’t even tell him not to. His mouth on my neck is distracting the hell out of me, hot and warm and dominating. I tilt my head to catch his lips, and he kisses back hungrily. “God, I want to,” he says huskily.

“What?”

Really, we’ve got no one to piss off here, no Brent, Spencer or Joe behind the wall, no confined back of the nest. My neighbours hate me, anyway, so it doesn’t matter if we’re loud enough to wake them. He has to tell me what he wants, and I’ll do it. He’s right, anyway; we did have sex last night. And if we’ve already broken the rules, then this morning I want to try and keep us under the spell as long as I can.

He groans against my mouth, pushing me against the mattress. “Want to fuck you.”

I instantly freeze, my eyes opening wide. Brendon pulls back, lips swollen and red. His breath hovers over my lips. “You should let me.”

“I really shouldn’t,” I retort, feeling fucking breathless. No, no way am I letting him to do _that_ to me.

“I’d make you feel so good,” he whispers, wet lips brushing over mine. My eyes flutter shut as he moves to lie on me, his weight pushing me down. “You ever fingered yourself?”

“No, why would I?” I ask a bit defensively, feeling my cheeks burning up. He keeps placing kisses on my lips, the corner of my mouth, languid, hot, not going anywhere. I try to chase his lips, feeling intoxicated. His erection is pressing against me, and for some reason, his dick suddenly feels bigger than it is, and no way would _that_ fit.

“I feel so crazy when you finger me,” he says huskily, causing my stomach to drop. “Your fingers – God, just thinking about doing that to you makes me so hard.”

I swallow audibly as his lips travel over my Adam’s apple, tongue swiping over the skin. He’s got one hand between us, cupping my hard cock. I might’ve gotten harder as he’s talked. He rubs me, and I groan involuntarily. “Brendon.”

“You know how much I love it, how good it feels for me.”

“Well yeah, but –” I stop to catch my breath, mind spinning. But he’s _gay_. I’m not.

Before I can manage to tell him that, he kisses me, sucking my bottom lip into his mouth. I can’t _think_ when he touches me and kisses me like this, when he –

He pulls back and stares into my eyes, his pupils blown and darkened with want. “I want to be inside you.”

My entire body fucking melts, an insane burn taking over. I pull him down for a starving kiss. Fucking hell. It feels good for him when I do it, if his moans are anything to go by. If he wants that. If he...

Our noses brush together as I kiss him frantically, squirming beneath his weight. “Okay?” he asks in between kisses, and I mumble, “Sure, yeah.” God, anything, don’t care, we just need to be closer, doesn’t matter what happens because we always manage to get off and feel good. I just need him to stop teasing me.

He smiles wide against my mouth, breaking the kiss with a wet pop. “Okay. Well.” Suddenly, he’s all business-like, as if we just held a negotiation of some kind and he got what he wanted. He sits up straight on the bed, and I lift myself to rest on my elbows. “I’ll fix us something to drink. You should shower.”

Wait. Did I just agree to let him fuck me?

He’s already out of bed and stretching languidly, not at all bothered that he’s naked and hard. “Whisky works for you, right?”

I nod feebly, trying to catch my breath or think when all the blood in my body is not in my brain.

“Far out,” he grins, leaning back down. He places one hand to the back of my head, holding me in place as he kisses me, tongue greedily brushing over mine. My fingers clutch his shoulder, returning the kiss. “I’ll go see what you’ve got,” he murmurs against my – by now – swollen lips.

I watch him go, and he winks at me from the doorway. I’m still on the bed, his taste in my mouth, my cock hard. My mind is foggy and clouded by his touch, but I’m slowly pulling the bits and pieces together.

Wait.

Did I just agree to let him fuck me?

* * *

I thought standing on stage and singing my songs every night made me feel exposed. I was wrong. _This_ , sitting here, waiting for Brendon, shower fresh and in my underwear, wondering what the fuck I agreed to, is making me feel exposed. I should get dressed and leave or at least wait by the bedroom door, launch on him the second he comes back from his own shower, bend him over and take him there. Not sit here. Waiting. Waiting for him to come back and fuck me.

“Fuck,” I swear and take another long sip of the whisky. I hear the bathroom door open, and I instantly sit up straighter on the bed, senses electrified. Brendon walks in casually like he lives here, towelling his hair but naked otherwise, kicking the door closed behind him habitually.

“Hey,” he smiles, eyes washing over me. I did as I was told. I showered, got ready – I actually took steps to get fucked by him, which is insane. This is not a good idea. We shouldn’t do this.

I’m taller than him, and even if I’m skinnier, I still feel big around him. Like he’s the one that might break somehow, he’s the one I can push into a corner and hover over. But right now, I feel shorter and smaller. God, this is a stupid idea.

I nervously lift my glass again and take a sip. Brendon drops the towel on the floor when he’s done with his hair, walking over and laughing. “Don’t drink too much.”

“Isn’t that the point? Getting intoxicated?”

He shakes his head. “Just want you to relax a little.”

He’s not hard. Neither am I, but my skin feels so fucking electrified, anyway. He eyes my boxers a little, like he’s confused as to why I put clothes on. Well, I clearly need to protect my ass from him somehow. Jesus Christ, I’m not really going to –

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning down and lifting my chin. “Relax.” His eyes look so damn deep into me.

He leans down like he’s going to kiss me, but when we kiss, we touch, and when we touch, we fuck. And for once, I don’t want that.

Instead, I pull back and offer him my glass of whisky. He takes it and sits down next to me, and I reach for the entire bottle on the nightstand, unscrewing the cork and going back to taking slugs of it. We drink silently, and my eyes keep darting from my drink to him, to the walls, the window. It’s so quiet that I can hear the sheets rustling, the occasional honk echoing from the street outside three stories below.

The whisky burns my throat, and as I am about to bring the bottle to my lips again, Brendon catches my wrist, thumb pressing against the pulse point. When I meet his gaze, he puts his drink down, taking the bottle from me and doing the same. Then, without saying anything, he closes the distance between us, pushing me back down on the bed.

I’m pretty good at sex. I know what I’m doing, where it’s heading, and I certainly don’t need to think about it. And even when I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, I covered it up and pretended I knew. I told the first girl I ever slept with that I had done it plenty. She never seemed to notice I hadn’t.

But right now, as I place an uncertain kiss on Brendon’s lips, I realise this has got to be the first time I am actually out of my league. Brendon returns the kiss softly but firmly, coaxing my mouth open until I give in. We both taste like alcohol.

He soon moves to kissing my neck and chest, hands running over me. I’m the centre of attention, and he’s clearly not expecting me to do anything except lie back and get inevitably lost in his touch. I let out a chuckle when his tongue dips in my belly button. “That tickles,” I say a bit breathlessly, and he smiles against my skin, constantly heading south. I try to relax and get into it.

The kisses turn less innocent when he reaches my crotch. I’m getting hard, which is a good thing, because if I’m hard and Brendon’s here, I will get off. Eventually. Maybe not from what he wants us to do, but there’s got to be an orgasm somewhere in the near future, and that’s good.

He inches my boxers down, kissing the V of my hips that gets further exposed. I lift my hips to help him out, and he tugs the underwear off me, exposing me fully. He’s hard by now, and again I consider flipping us around and just taking him. Then he starts mouthing at my cock slowly, and I sigh restlessly, letting my eyelids close and hands tangle in his short, damp hair.

“Do you do this a lot?” I ask, gasping a little when he licks over the slit of my cock. He’s managing to get me hard really damn fast.

“Define a lot,” he says, the words muffled against my shaft. His mouth travels down to my balls, and I spread my legs a little to give him access. His mouth is so fucking talented.

I muffle a groan as I take a tighter hold of his hair, though I’m not controlling his movements. “I don’t know, I just –” I stop to suck in a breath when he gives the underside of my cock a broad lick. By now, I’m as hard as I’ll get. “Thought you liked getting fucked.”

“I do,” he says huskily, and I can sense him looking at me so I open my eyes. His shiny lower lip is pressed against the head of my cock, and I’ve managed to make a mess of his hair. “I just really want to fuck you,” he says, almost laughing like he can’t believe how much he wants to do it. “Sometimes, us fucking is all I can think about,” he then adds, voice hoarse, and he places a hungry kiss to the head of my cock, causing me to moan. I’m glad he’s got the same problem I do.

He moves back over me, and I assume it’s to exchange saliva, but I realise he’s reaching out to go through the drawer of the nightstand. He still kisses me, but then he frowns a little and pulls back. “I swear we didn’t use it all up,” he says, sliding to half-lie on me as he reaches for the drawer. I try to catch my breath, my chest rising and falling irregularly. God, it feels so hot in the room.

“Ah,” he says eventually, retrieving the lube victoriously. He pecks my lips, the tube in his hand. I must be fucking insane. “It’ll be good, trust me.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” I note, and he grins a little, leaning down to kiss me again and again until I feel like I’m going insane, my mouth raw as he doesn’t give me a second to compose myself. He nudges my legs further apart with his own, and I comply without thinking. “God, you’re gonna look so hot,” he groans against my lips, and he starts heading down my body, sucking on a nipple and leaving a trace of saliva. His hand reaches between my ass cheeks, fingers wet and sticky. He presses a finger against my hole and leaves it there, applying just a bit of pressure.

“This is a bad idea,” I gasp breathlessly, ignoring how overwhelmed I feel. He only hums against my skin and then takes my cock into his mouth, like he’s not really paying attention to my words. “Fuck,” I groan, instantly taking a hold of his hair again. His finger is moving in circles, spreading lube on me. The way I do to him. The tip of his index finger slips inside.

I groan without meaning to. That’s weird. That doesn’t feel very natural. Doesn’t hurt but it’s _weird_.

Brendon’s acting like he doesn’t have a finger in my ass at all, like he’s simply sucking me off and is oblivious to the actions of his hand, even if I can feel his other fingers pressed against my flesh, keeping me open as his index finger probes at my hole. His other hand is at the base of my cock, helping him blow me. His finger slides in further, all the way, and it stings slightly. God, it’s so intrusive.

He crooks his finger a little, pushing against the muscles. I’m not sure what he’s trying to do, but his finger is in me, and it’s moving. I can’t even breathe properly. He pulls back from sucking my cock, his hand taking over and stroking steadily. “Want your mouth,” I say slightly incoherently, wanting his lips back on me. I need some kind of a reward for this. And if he thinks fingering will get me off, then he’s wrong.

“Patience,” he says huskily. His finger pulls out almost all the way and then pushes back into me; there is a moment of clear penetration that feels surreal. My body tenses up, pulse accelerating. His finger crooks inside me with more force now. “Say when.”

“When what?” I ask, not comprehending. He twists his finger, and I jerk in surprise, cutting off a surprised moan. “Oh,” I breathe out. Fuck. That felt good. It _actually_ felt good, and I’m not even gay. Fuck, who knew?

He is breathing heavily, and I don’t understand why. His cock is leaking already too. We’ve just started.

“Feels good, right?” he asks, voice low. I have the sense to feel embarrassed when I nod. God, no one can ever find out about this.

He starts a repeated motion with his finger, pushing the digit into me at the right angle. I start getting used to it, biting on my lip and trying not to groan. He lowers his mouth back onto my cock, thank god. It’s twice the pleasure somehow, his swollen and wet lips on me, and at the same time, he’s got a finger working me open, and it doesn’t feel half-bad. There’s something intoxicating about the constant slide.

“More,” I breathe out, not meaning to say it. Can’t believe I’m asking it. He pushes in a second finger alongside the first. “Shit,” I rasp, hips snapping spontaneously. I’m wet and slick where his fingers are in me, and there’s a definite stretch now that’s not comfortable. Half of me wants him to stop, but the other half is ignoring the pain and is drunk on the flashes of heat.

He suckles the head of my cock slowly. He’s not even trying to get me off. He’s trying to distract me, but it doesn’t work – two fingers feels fucking huge, but he keeps them moving constantly, stretching me further. And just when I’ve decided that no, this isn’t happening, my body shudders noticeably from the push of his fingers, the pleasure undeniable.

“Brendon,” I manage, warning him. Of what, not sure. That it’s weird as fuck. That it feels good. His mouth wanders from my cock and attaches itself to my inner thigh, tongue flicking over the skin.

“You’re so fucking hot, Ryan,” he breathes. “Can’t believe how tight you are.”

There’s a compliment I never thought I’d hear.

“It kind of stings,” I manage, licking my lips slightly.

“That’s one of the things I love about it,” he says and bites on my inner thigh, mouth attaching itself hungrily. His fingers still keep pressing against that spot inside me, and when I get used to the stretch, it starts feeling good again. “I should prep you with three,” he says when he pulls back, and the skin he latched onto feels sore, and fuck me if there won’t be a bruise there tomorrow. His hair is in disarray, his skin flushed. I can see that he’s watching his fingers steadily appearing and disappearing into me. God, I feel it, all of it, the way he’s inside.

“You _should_?” I ask, having caught that word with the little common sense I have left.

“Should,” he confirms, and then his fingers have slipped out of me. “Don’t have the fucking patience to,” he rushes out, and then he’s back on me, his mouth covering mine. I groan against his lips, our erections brushing together. He props himself on one elbow, supporting himself above me, and his other hand lands on my hip. “Turn around,” he whispers.

Onto my stomach? So that I can’t even see him?

“It’ll be so good for you,” he promises, and I’ve got nothing inside me, and it feels empty now. The anticipation is killing me as I try to chase the pleasure that he was giving me just a second ago. I’m so hard I can’t think, and now it’s just _empty_ , and I feel desperate to change that.

When he nudges my hip again, I let myself roll over on the bed. My erection presses against the mattress, and I breathe in the pillow, eyes closing. He presses against my back, practically lying on me. His cock is trapped between us, and I feel the wet tip of his erection against my lower back. He uses his legs to push my own apart. I was wrong earlier, when waiting for him to come out of the shower was making me feel exposed. _This_ is making me feel exposed.

His mouth travels down my spine, both hands on my ass, rubbing and then pulling my ass cheeks apart as his cock slips between, brushing over my entrance. I almost panic for a second, but then he retreats, his mouth now on my lower back. I feel his breath on my skin, moving lower, his tongue licking lower... and lower... And he is really going to stop going lower any second now, he –I jerk without meaning to because his tongue just licked over my hole. There’s a line, there’s a fucking line, and he’s crossing it.

I mean to ask what the fuck he’s doing, but then his tongue brushes over me again where I’m already wet and open for him, and his mouth is overwhelming. He groans a little, spreading my cheeks with his hands, and then his tongue pushes inside. I muffle my moans against the pillow. Jesus fuck, I did not see this coming. And his tongue feels so hot, that really feels –

Then his mouth is gone, like he just wanted to scar me for life with the small newsflash that someone’s tongue in your ass feels fucking amazing. My cock’s throbbing agreeingly.

“I should’ve done that before the lube,” he comments, and really, that’s what he’s thinking right now? That lube doesn’t taste good?

“Fuck,” I manage to say, hoping it doesn’t come across as too turned on.

I’ve had his fingers, had his tongue, and I just need him to do something because fuck, it feels hot. It’s like how Jac squirms and gets desperate if I’m teasing her, which I usually can’t be bothered to do, but she says that she needs _something_ in her or she’ll go insane. I always thought it was her being dramatic. Now I suddenly relate. Funny how that probably won’t save our relationship in the long run.

Brendon’s hands are on my hips, guiding, and I oblige, getting on my hands and knees. It makes the feeling of exposure even more obvious, like I’m offering myself to him, and my cheeks feel hot from the embarrassment. Thank god a part of me has the sense to acknowledge who I am and what I’m doing. Tonight, I’ll walk in front of thousands of fans screaming at me, a god-like figure who has all the answers, but now, I’m on all fours, unable to catch up with what’s going on. For him.

His hips press against my ass, his cock sliding over my left ass cheek. I can hear the lube being popped open again, his mouth on the small of my back, biting and licking, and my mind pictures him rubbing lube onto himself. This is actually happening.

“You ready?” he asks, and I stay still, not wanting to crane my neck to see him like I want to see him right now, which I do, but it’s stupid that I do, so I don’t.

“Just go for it,” I tell him, holding my breath, eyes screwing shut. Go on. Just sodomise me. Jesus Christ, what’s that in the list of fucking stupid shit I’ve done in my life?

I feel his cock pressing against me, and he’s rubbing himself over me a little. It only gives me a better understanding of the differences in size, how his cock will force me open even more. My god, what _am_ I doing?

“Jesus,” he pants, sounding barely in control. I bite back the joke of my name being Ryan, actually, since there’s nothing funny about this, and then he’s grabbing my hips and pushing forwards.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” I cry out, biting on my tongue before my mouth just drops open and I groan into the pillow. He’s pushing into me steadily. It burns, though the movement is fluid, and I can feel that he has to force his way in regardless of how much he stretched me.

I lose my breath entirely, fisting the sheets. I feel like I’ve been pushed wide open and filled up, and I can _feel_ every single inch of him in me. Inside me, so fucking deep. He comes to a stop, buried in all the way, and it stings, the intrusion making me bite the pillow. Fuck, how does he do this? How does anyone do this?

“Ryan?” His voice is husky and almost a moan in itself, slightly disbelieving. “Fucking hell...”

I feel his moist lips on my shoulder blade, moving over my skin aimlessly as his forehead presses against my back. His hands are gripping my hips and keeping me still, not letting me follow my instinct of inching forwards to make him slip out.

“I think we should stop,” I say through ragged breathing. I can’t take it. Fuck, it’s too much of everything, it –

He keeps perfectly still, but I can feel him, so hard and hot. “I think we should keep going,” he says like he’s settling the debate.

And, just like that, he starts moving. I drop onto my elbows, cursing into the pillow. I feel how he’s pressing against me inside where everything’s so sensitive, but the stretch, and how huge he feels, and my cock is bigger than his but he always takes me so well, fuck, sometimes it’s like my cock isn’t enough for him, like he’d want more, and I can’t even deal with this.

Amateurs and professionals.

His thrusts are shallow, but I feel like nothing makes sense anymore. The world’s dissolving, and then there’s just me biting on my tongue, and it’s senseless that it hurts but I’m still so fucking hard. The constant, fluid slide fills me up again, and somewhere beneath the painful throb is a ghost of pleasure. And then there’s him, the way he sounds, the way he’s now saying that I feel good, that I feel so fucking good.

I’m getting fucked.

Once I’ve wrapped my mind around the idea, I tell myself to man the fuck up. I smile against the pillow crookedly because _that’s_ ironic, hissing at the burn as Brendon pushes into me again, clearly trying not to overdo it. He buries himself in all the way, and I reach for my cock, groaning as I touch myself. He retreats, leaving me feeling empty, and then he pushes back. I’m ready this time. When he slams into me, I thrust back against him just to see if I can make him gasp. I can.

“Ryan,” he groans a bit warningly, like if I’m not careful he’ll lose it. He pushes in again a bit more forcefully. My chest feels constricted, and I force myself to move with him. It makes him sound that much further gone. The friction is unbearable, but at the same time, he slides in effortlessly, my muscles gripping onto him. He’s trying to control the speed. I can tell it’s taking him effort.

“Just do it,” I order, mind clouded. I feel empty when he pulls back, my cock throbbing when he pushes in. “Bren,” I groan. “If you’re gonna fuck me, just –”

He readjusts his grip of my hips and starts a faster rhythm, thrusts no longer slow at all. It’s deep and hard, and I chase something, pleasure, pain, both. My back arches to get more of his cock, and he’s really fucking me now. None of that slow and careful crap. We’ve never been either of those things with anything.

His other hand moves to the back of my neck, taking a firm hold of me there. I try to bite on my lip to keep quiet, telling myself to take him. I fist my cock, and though I’m fucking hard, I don’t feel on the edge of orgasm. It’s a different kind of pleasure.

Just as I think I’m used to it, Brendon pulls out all the way, and I groan in protest. Shit, that _stings_.

“Hang on, just –” he says, panting, and then his cock is on my hole again, after he’s readjusted himself. His hand on the back of my neck keeps firm pressure on me, somehow comforting that he’s here, there, all fucking over. His nails dig into my skin. He pushes back in, slow and deliberate, and I feel my muscles give way, accommodating him, but at the same time, he’s pressing against me from all angles, and I know what it feels like, to be inside him and feel all his muscles squeezing around my cock just because he’s that tight.

I groan out of nowhere when his cock brushes against the spot he was rubbing with his fingers earlier. It feels even better when his cock makes contact with it. My muscles tighten around him, which only intensifies the sensation.

“That okay?” he asks, voice raspy.

“Yeah,” I say breathlessly. My cock is fucking leaking.

He starts fucking me again, and it’s insane how I suddenly crave the feeling of him pushing into me, the angle just right, causing flashes of heat on my skin. I push back to meet him, and he puts more force behind his thrusts, pushing deeper into me. God, he sounds dirty, like he did last night when he fucked the kid. I remember the concentration on his face, the flashes of pleasure, but at the same time he sounds so much louder now.

I let my eyes close as our bodies move together, stroking my cock and hoping to get myself off. The more he fucks me, the more I’m getting used to it, the surreal feeling fading away and replacing itself with a burning sensation of more. More speed, more depth, more force. I hear the sound of our bodies slamming together, like we’re both desperate to get there.

“God, I’m not gonna last,” he groans, and that’s good because I can’t take this for long. But I’m not there yet, the intrusion and the fact of penetration still too new for me to have let go of all inhibitions. But at least he’ll be done and out of me and this will be over and – But no, god, I want him inside, every inch of his hard cock, his hips slamming against my ass and us both coming and trembling. I’ve never felt this goddamn violated in my life, but somehow it’s turning me on.

His rushed out “ah” sounds are muffled against my skin with each hard thrust, and he fucks so deep into me and so frantically, and I recognise the sound, anyway; I know that he’s coming before I feel it. And I do feel it, him coming inside me, and it’s the most surreal feeling that leaves me hot all over. He never told me how possessive it feels, how it’s like claiming property.

His groans are deep and masculine, and he rides it out, small thrusts until he’s done, filling me up with his come. I feel well fucked right now, even if I haven’t climaxed yet, and I grip my cock tighter, trying to get off.

He pulls out of me without warning, and I curse. Fuck, I’m sore, and my muscles try to grip onto something that’s not there anymore.

“Turn around, fuck,” he rushes out, and I instantly move to lie on my back, letting myself crash against the mattress. I see him now, and he’s covered in sweat, his softening cock in view. I’m still painfully hard, the adrenalin rush making my limbs weak. He grabs my ankles, pulling me down the bed, and then he’s lowered his mouth onto my cock.

“Brendon,” I groan, fisting his hair. He moves one hand between my legs and instantly pushes two fingers back in me. My hips buck up, and it’s not enough anymore, two fingers don’t seem to do the job. He crooks them, though, and pleasure spreads through me. He sucks my cock like he doesn’t need to breathe, mouth wet and hot, and his fingers fuck me roughly. “Harder,” I command frantically, head hitting back against the pillow. “Harder, fuck.”

He complies, and then he pushes in with three fingers. My body tenses up, my breaths erratic. “ _Shi_ –”

I come hard, hips lifting off the mattress. I feel my muscles clenching around his fingers, which he keeps still except for the very tips that are hooking inside me, rubbing me where I can’t fucking take it. He swallows as my orgasm hits me. When he pulls back, some of my come dribbles onto my lower stomach from the corner of his mouth. He catches his breath, wiping white, milky substance from his lower lip.

“Fuck,” I breathe out, slowly coming down. He leans over me, licking my come off my skin as he carefully pulls his fingers out. I wince despite myself.

He moves back up on the bed, crashing next to me and pressing to my side. My muscles feel stiff when I finally have the sense to bring my legs together. Fuck, I’m sore. So much for sitting on anything. Ever.

“How was it?” he asks after a while, sounding genuinely curious. His voice is raw like he’s moaned too much.

“It was...”

He watches me intently. It wasn’t bad. It was good. It hurt, but then it didn’t hurt, until it did again, and then it just felt fucking _good_ , and it was weird. It was definitely weird.

Instead of answering, I turn to my side to reach for the nightstand. I rummage the drawer that Brendon left open, and my hand finds what I was looking for. I settle back on the bed, getting a cigarette out of the pack and fiddling with the lighter.

“That good, huh?” he asks when I manage to light a cigarette and inhale deep. I flip him off, and he laughs. I smile despite myself, almost laughing when I drop the lighter onto the bed and offer him the cigarette. He takes it, taking a languid drag. I don’t want to talk about it. It happened, he knows what we did, how I reacted. He knows.

When he hands the cigarette back, pressing into my side, all warm and post-coital, he adds, “I cried the first time. Well, not during but after. It hurt like a bitch.”

“I’m not gonna fucking cry,” I note disbelievingly. Jesus, I’m not some chick, and it wasn’t _that_ painful.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he jokes, causing me to roll my eyes. His expression turns more serious. “I was fifteen myself. Didn’t know the guy. He’d given me a ride, and it just happened. He was in his mid-thirties, I think. Married. He got us a gritty motel room. Damn squeaky bed,” he lists, eyes slightly glassy as he thinks back to it. “He didn’t last long, thankfully.” He doesn’t look at me, like maybe he’s embarrassed. Like I’d judge him at this point.

“Yeah, about that,” I say thoughtfully. “Feeling someone come inside you. How messed up is that?”

He laughs, his expression lightening up as he looks at me with sparkling eyes. “I’ve always thought it’s fucking hot.”

“You _would_ think that,” I note. I take the half-burnt cigarette from my lips and reach out to stub it against the nightstand. It seems like he’s waiting for something, so I place one hand to the back of his neck, rubbing gently. He arches into the touch a little, reminiscent of a cat somehow. “C’mere,” I whisper, seeing the tension in his shoulders vanish gradually.

We kiss slowly, legs entwining. He’s got his eyes closed when I pull back but keep our foreheads touching. “At least the sex’s gotten better, right?”

He laughs. “Definitely.” His fingers circle my chest idly. “Can you... still feel me? In you?”

“Yeah,” I admit.

“That’s what I love the most. Feeling so...”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence as my mind is supplying different alternatives. “Claimed” comes to mind. “Fucked” too. It’s making my chest constrict, a sense of panic that I try and not let him see. It was good, but I took it too far. The sex was good. Maybe I wouldn’t mind doing that again sometime. Maybe I could get used to waking up with him in my bed. The second that realisation dawns on me, it’s harder to breathe. The second you want something, you risk losing it. I’ve stopped wanting anything. The second you let yourself have something. Someone. I can’t do that.

He captures my lips. The kiss is soft and sweet, more like a seal than anything else. When he pulls back, he whispers, “I’ve missed you,” eyes focused on my cheek meekly. His voice sounds somehow different when he says it. Like he means it.

Fuck, what if he means it?

“Course you did,” I chuckle. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

“Famished.”

God, I’m relieved he let me get away with that one. “Breakfast it is,” I conclude.

I get out of bed and focus on walking normally. Here’s hoping he doesn’t notice.

* * *

Brent, Jac and I sit in the dressing room in perfect silence.

Well, this is awkward.

Jac’s going through a magazine, clearly bored, and I’m biting on my fingernails, trying to smooth sharp edges. Brent’s eyes flicker from me to Jac on the adjacent couch, like it’s as close to each other as he’d let us sit, anyway.

“God, must be the first time I’m too early for anything,” Jac notes as she flips to another page. It’s a first for me too. The second first this week. Even Pete can fuck up – yesterday he said we’d have to soundcheck early, which is why Jac and I got here half an hour ago, only to find Brent wandering around and asking where the hell everyone is. The support band is getting their own gear ready, and we’re the only ones of our crew around. We must have missed a memo or another. Pete probably tried calling, but Jac and I spent the entire night at a friend of ours, smoking pot, eating pizza and talking bullshit.

I’m not sure if I was hoping to see Brendon here. I haven’t seen him since last night when he, William and Andy decided to go out. I think William knows we’re at it again. He must know, the way he looked at me. I mean, I think I can hide it pretty well. Act nonchalant, ignore Brendon’s existence. We’ve fucked a few times since I... Since we did what we did. But it’s been nothing like that time since. A few rushed backstage fucks, limited kissing, barely any intimacy, just me fucking him quick and hard when the tension gets too much. That’s how it should be. He’s not staying with me anymore either because Jac would have noticed. He seemed okay with leaving. It felt empty after he left, showing that it’s good he took off when he did. I don’t want to get used to something like that.

The lame excuses I tell Jac feel more transparent by the day, but she hasn’t caught on so far.

The difference is that we’ve learned our lesson, so maybe it will work this time. I need to focus on what it’s all about, ignore that Brendon’s got a few on me, that I’ve got a few on him. And it’s not that we share anything. No, all we’ve got is ammunition we stupidly shared after orgasms, when you let things slip a little. I’ll fuck him because I want to. But that’s it. That’s all it is. Just need to make sure I don’t fabricate lies I can’t back up. Really, how could I possibly get caught when –

“So when Brendon was staying with you, what did he and that William fight about?” Jac now asks, her tone like she’s only asking out of extreme boredom.

“Um,” I manage. Brent’s frozen by the side table where he was enjoying the crackers laid out for us. “I didn’t ask.”

“They seemed cuddly enough last night,” she comments, putting the magazine away and sighing. “Are they dating? Do gay guys date?”

“No,” Brent supplies. “They just fuck.” Brent is looking at me when he says it.

“Huh,” Jac hums. “William looks like a homo to me.”

“I think he is,” I now say. “They’re not dating, but I’m pretty sure Will’s a fag.”

“You’d know, right?” Brent asks pointedly, and I shoot him a warning glare. He better keep his fucking mouth shut. Jac doesn’t seem to have picked up on the comment. Brent’s looking victorious as I tense up. “So Brendon crashed at your place. You never said, Ryan.”

“Can I talk to you outside for a minute?” I ask sharply, standing up and glaring. Jac is staring at us, looking puzzled. Brent quirks a challenging eyebrow at me, and together we exit the dressing room and step out to the narrow corridor that’s deserted except for us.

Brent’s a pretty well-built guy, not skinny like I am. He’s got broad shoulders and strong arms, and I’m only half an inch taller than him. When he stares me down, however, I feel shorter than him. I stand my ground firmly. “You got something to say to me?”

“No. I really don’t. You know why?” he demands. “Because I don’t socialise with fags.”

It shouldn’t really surprise me he calls me a fag. Brent’s got issues. He generally hates everyone. Really, normally I couldn’t be bothered getting offended. He’s a fag, I’m a fag, we’re all fags in his books. Fag, fag, fag. But now it hits home, the memory of me on my hands and knees for a man, letting myself be fucked, taking a cock up my ass. And I liked it.

“Sure,” I scoff, trying to act like he’s not getting to me. He’s been acting like a cunt ever since we got to LA. Can’t stand it, can he? That Jac’s fussing over me constantly?

He certainly looks like he’s about to murder me. “You’re still at it, aren’t you?” he seethes. “William and Brendon haven’t been fighting.”

“Like you’d notice!”

“I’ve been keeping my eyes on you two so, yeah, I would! I fucking told you that I’d tell Jac if you ever did that again, and you know what? You’ve lost your chance. Never should’ve given you one, you fucked up _prick_.”

I’m just about to launch on him and fucking beat him up when Zack’s voice says, “What’s going on?” His booming voice breaks the spell, but it does nothing to appease the fury bubbling in my guts. Zack is heading down the corridor with slightly hurried steps, like he is anticipating having to step in between.

“Nothing,” I spit.

“Nothing?” Brent hisses. “Jac deserves to know what her precious boyfriend has been up to.”

“And you think that will make her love you?” I ask, and I am not at all ready when Brent takes a swing at me. He misses, though, because Zack’s reached us and pulls Brent back just in time.

“What the hell’s going on?” Zack barks, now standing between Brent and me, looking back and forth between us in astonishment. And Brent’s lucky Zack is because, otherwise, I _swear_ I’d –

“He’s still sleeping with Brendon!” Brent declares furiously.

“You’re fucking my girlfriend!” I bite back, and Brent looks surprised for a second, the anger dissolving as he realises that I know. I’ve known half of the fucking summer. Zack looks like he would much rather not be here right now, like he’s torn between disbelief and desperation.

“Okay, so maybe I am fucking Jac. Someone’s gotta give it to her. God knows you’re not.”

“Yeah, it’s _so_ considerate for you and half of the city to step in.”

Brent tries to come at me again, but Zack pushes him back. “Okay, you two shut up right now!” he barks angrily. “You’re grown men, both of you!”

Brent takes a few steps back, but he keeps looking at me with hatred in his eyes. I try to stare him down. That asshole, that little piece of –

“Where’s Pete when you need him?” Zack sighs exasperatedly. If he’s hoping for Pete to miraculously emerge and save the day, he’s wrong. Zack looks at us with pleading eyes. “We’re almost done with the tour, we’ve only got two more LA shows and then a handful further north, so please, for god’s sake, refrain from beating each other up until then, alright? I don’t care who’s fucking who, you’re supposed to be _professionals_.”

“You expect me to work with the likes of him?” Brent snaps and points at me. If he dares to call me a fag again, I’ll pull out his windpipe and shove it up his ass. Let’s see how gay _that_ makes him feel.

The dressing room door opens, and Jac peeks out, clearly having heard the commotion. “What’s going on?”

We all look at each other, a surprised silence on us. Brent and I have always argued, even when we were friends. Now he gives me a cruel smile. “I told you I’d do this.”

“Don’t you –”

“Ryan’s been fucking Brendon all summer,” Brent declares, and Zack groans like he can’t believe this is happening again. Neither can I. To my surprise, Brent looks a bit sorry. Not because of me. Not out of any sympathy or feeling bad about backstabbing me, but for her. He glances at Jac like he’s in slight pain himself. “Your boyfriend’s a faggot, Jac. Time you know it too.”

Jac’s eyes are impossibly wide. It makes her look pretty. She opens her mouth, but I say, “No. No, I am not doing this. Fuck you, Brent, and thanks for nothing! I’m not fucking Brendon. I’ve told you that I put an end to that. And yes, for the record, I did fuck him,” I add to Jac.

Jac seems speechless. Let’s keep it that way.

“I was experimenting, horny, and he was conveniently there. I’m not the first guy to try it out. I can own up to that.” But only that. Everything else, switching roles, laughing at the same stupid jokes, half a minute of holding his hand, all of that I cannot own up to. “But this is not about me. This is about you two and your stupid little affair, like you think I’d fucking _care_ , and it’s just so sad seeing you so lovesick, Brent. Did you think that she’d, what? Leave me for you? Are you _kidding_?”

“You think she’s gonna be with you now?” Brent shoots back pointedly, and Jac looks more shocked by the second, either by Brendon and me or that I know about her and Brent. Zack doesn’t look amused anymore. He’s still standing between us, making sure to keep us away from each other, but I think he’s just too disappointed in everyone involved to actually try and tell us to stop.

“You’ve been sleeping with that guy?” Jac asks slowly, only now catching on. She looks appalled.

“For months,” Brent supplies.

“Shut up! For once in your life, shut up!” I bark at him. “You know nothing about that.” I look at my girlfriend. “And don’t you – Oh god,” I groan when I see that her eyes are glistening.

“You’ve made her cry!” Brent snaps angrily like I didn’t see that myself. Resorting to the waterworks. That’s cheap. It doesn’t work on me. If she thinks that will make me feel even remotely guilty about my actions as of late, she’s wrong.

“You don’t get to be upset, Jac. You’ve been fucking one of my bandmates, so _you_ don’t –”

“It makes sense now!” she exclaims with wide eyes. “You don’t touch me anymore! All week, we’ve not even – I thought you’d lost interest, but it’s _him_! It’s not me. It’s him!”

“And it’s not me either, it’s him!” I snap and point at Brent.

She pales further. “Baby, you know that doesn’t mean anything. I was just feeling _lonely_ and –”

“She’s been feeling lonely at least twice a week since April,” Brent notes. Even longer than I thought. That fucking –

“Brent, would you keep quiet?!” Jac requests angrily, wiping her cheeks, but Brent doesn’t back down.

“What are you doing with him? I’ve been asking you that all summer! He treats you like crap! He’s been sleeping with a _man_ behind your back! He doesn’t love you! He’s a conceited, perverted, arrogant lowlife, and he doesn’t love you!”

It’s true. Our entire relationship is based on us not loving each other. That’s why it’s worked until now. Until she started screwing Brent, and Brent fell for her, and then Brendon happened. Not that he... Brendon didn’t _happen_ in the sense that it’s changed anything. We’ve been having fun, doing whatever makes me feel good. It’s not sick. Not until they remind me that it is.

Jac’s still tearing up, and I take steps away from them. “You don’t get to tell me what I can do. Fucking Brendon was goddamn innocent compared to what you’ve been up to. You two think that, what? You’ve found love? Fucking sickens me,” I snarl before turning around and walking away.

“At least I know what hole to stick it into!” Brent calls after me, and when I don’t react, he adds, “Fucking faggot!”

“I think he’s got the point,” Zack’s voice says, and I slam my open palm against the wall angrily as I try to get as far away from them as I can.

* * *

I don’t actually get far. I _can’t_ go far because I will still have to soundcheck. I can’t quit this band. Maybe we can fire Brent? I might be able to talk Spencer into it – he doesn’t take infidelity lightly. He spent the entire summer not cheating on his wife. I’m amazed. And he never liked Jac anyway, so he won’t care that I cheated on her. I can totally get rid of Brent.

Or maybe I could have him killed. Do I know anyone who might know someone who does that?

I don’t.

Fuck.

I ran out of cigarettes half an hour ago and they’re not selling any at the bar. The place is dead. I picked the first bar I could find, and this place is thankfully quiet and poorly lit. The bartender is supplying me with beer as he mainly focuses on cleaning the bar area for the evening when things presumably will liven up. I keep eyeing the all access pass hanging around my neck. It’s not shiny like it was when we started this tour. It’s bent and scratchy, much like its owner.

“Hey,” a timid voice comes over my shoulder, but I don’t turn to look at Jac. Instead I sigh heavily, staring at my beer bottle. The green O of the mouth. Definitely not the gateway to salvation, but maybe to oblivion for an hour or two. I knew she’d find me. If I had wanted to avoid her, I would not have headed to the nearest sleazy bar. She takes a seat on the stool next to me. “Could I get a beer?” she calls out to the bartender, digging through her purse and getting out cigarettes. Thank god for that.

She’s clearly composed herself a little. That’s good.

We sit in silence, drinking our beers, and I smoke the cigarette she gives me without me having to ask.

“What a pair we make,” she finally comments. We’re both sleeping with men instead of each other. She’s certainly got a point. After a while, she quietly adds, “You know the thing with Brent doesn’t mean anything.” She sounds sorry.

“Brendon neither,” I point out, wanting to make that distinction clear. It’s not like I’m with him in any way. The little relationships that I have are with women, not men. “I fucked the guy a few times, alright?” I emphasise nervously, giving her a side-glance.

“Okay,” she says, nodding, taking it in and trying to accept it.

“You know that I... When we’re touring. I meet a lot of people. I do things.” We’ve never actually talked about it, but I’ve assumed that she knows tour rules. I assume that she assumes that I fuck around.

“I know. I meet people too.”

And I’ve always known that. Monogamy has never been for us.

She bites on her lower lip uncertainly. “Are you in love with him?”

“Jac, come on,” I say with a roll of my eyes. My throat closes up, making it harder to breathe.

She shifts restlessly, at least smiling like she knows it’s a stupid question. It’s a fucking stupid question. No one’s asked me that before. Even I haven’t. “It’s just... You’ve spent the entire summer with him.”

“Brent exaggerates. It’s not been all summer, just a few times over the past month or so.” Well, that’s a blatant lie. “It was like... I knew I shouldn’t do it, so I did. The guys found out and got pissed, so I stopped. They didn’t get that it was just sex. But you get that, right?”

I finally look her in the eye. She looks dead serious, but gives no indication that she does understand where I’m coming from. Instead, she sighs. “Maybe I should’ve known. I mean, you wanted to... you know. Do _that_ when I came to New York.”

When I fucked her ass. Great.

“And you enjoyed it, so...?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow. We both got off.

“You’re not a fag, are you?”

“God,” I groan and shake my head. “If that’s honestly what you think, then I’m not going to have this conversation with you.” I slide off the bar stool, grabbing my beer with me.

She’s quick to follow me. “I’m serious! Are you?” she persists. The bar is still empty except for a few guys who now come in, and then the bartender who’s still behind the bar, and it’s not much of an audience but I hope to god they can’t hear this conversation. Jac grabs my arm, forcing me to turn around. “I need to know the truth!”

“Well, what do you think?” I snap. “You’ve known me for what? Almost a year and a half now?”

“But you’ve slept with him,” she insists. “I mean, he’s a _guy_. I don’t know any other straight men who’ve done that!”

I do. A few. Apart from the gay people I’ve now met, I know one or two guys who’ve been known to fuck a guy. Those guys aren’t people I’d classify as my friends. They’re the weird ones no one really wants to socialise with. The misfits. The ones that feel off somehow. The fucked up freaks.

“It’s a kink, Jac. Was a kink,” I say, feeling more and more frustrated by the second. Brendon might want to do his Gay Freedom Marches, but I’m not joining in on that charade just because I’ve gotten off with him.

“Men don’t sleep with men,” she says quietly.

I take in a calming breath, trying to ignore how she’s right. I know that. Fags all have something wrong in their heads, Brendon included. I’m not a part of that lot, even I can singlehandedly say that I am the only guy in my circle of friends who’s slept with a man, but what’s worse, I’ve also gotten fucked by one. The thought instantly makes my cheeks feel hot, and I hope to god Jac can’t read it on my face somehow. I’m fucked if she can.

“How about we just conclude that we’ve both fucked people we shouldn’t have?” I offer, needing this conversation to end. She’s making me think about things I don’t want to acknowledge are there. “And then –”

“Ryan,” comes a male voice, and I look up to see one of the guys who came in smiling at me nervously. He looks dazed. A fan. He can piss off.

Then I take another look at him. Oh. Oh _fuck_.

“How you been?” the kid asks shyly, giving Jac a brief glance before his hopeful eyes land on me again. The wistful puppy love on his face is so obvious that I can hardly stand it.

“Great, Kevin, if you –”

“Kenneth.”

“Right. Sure,” I say with the little patience I have.

And I’ve slept with this kid. Classy, Ross. Good move. He looks even younger now than he did that night – still good-looking, sure, but instead of being able to visualise him on his knees for me, I can see him sitting in a high school class room, bored out of his mind and amazed that he managed to crash that party and get fucked by guys in their twenties. One of them was even a rock star.

“I’ve been hoping to catch you, but man, they’re strict about who they let backstage!” he says, and he’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says he’s seen me out of these clothes. “I’ve been to every show!” I am honestly speechless at this point. “So. Um. Are you busy tonight or...?” He brushes blond hair behind his ear. “If you want to hang out. Or something.”

Or something. The most blatant euphemism for sex since human beings developed language.

“Who’s he?” Jac now asks sharply, her eyes thinning.

“A fan, what the hell does he look like?”

Kenneth’s eyes widen a little, and thank god he has the sense to be embarrassed. “Um, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Um. I’m sorry. Um.”

Jac takes another look at him and then turns her scandalised eyes to me. “You’ve fucked him”

“My god, you’re paranoid,” I bite back, but it’s useless because she’s made up her mind.

“Fucking keep him then!” she snaps at Kenneth and heads out of the bar, and Kenneth looks severely alarmed, even if his eyes are still slightly hopeful like he can keep me.

So I fucked him a little. I was drunk. Why do kids these days fail to understand the concept of casual sex? My god, every groupie or fan just wants to meet up again. I am not interested.

He says, “I’m really sorry if –”

“Look,” I bark at the kid. “Get a reality check. I don’t give a crap about what happened that night, alright? _You_ don’t matter. I’d already forgotten you even existed, so why don’t you just go back home to your mom and dad and never mention it to anyone ever again? Am I making myself clear?!”

Kenneth takes a step back. He looks slightly heartbroken. Fucking idiot.

“Fuck!” I swear angrily and storm out of the bar, actually having to run to catch up with Jac, who’s made it half a block already. “Jac, come on!” I say, but she frees herself the second I manage to get a hand on her shoulder. She swirls around, expression furious.

“You _are_ gay!”

“I –”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t fuck that kid because I know you did! How many more are there?! I mean, Brendon I can maybe understand! He’s gorgeous! He was convenient! Maybe I can get that if I try hard enough, but there’ve been others too!”

“Brendon and that kid, okay, fine, but I swear –”

“Why would I believe you?” she asks, backing away as she keeps her eyes on me. 

“Jac, for the love of god, you’re making too big a deal out of this!”

“Brent was right.”

“He wasn’t!” I persist and take a firm hold of her. She tries to fight me off, but she’s tiny, always has been, and I push her against the wall of the building next to us and kiss her. She mumbles an angry “Get off!” against my mouth, but I only take the opportunity to push my tongue into her mouth, muffling further protests. She doesn’t respond, but I don’t care, keeping her trapped between the wall and me. When I pull back for air, she’s panting too. “Would I do that if I wasn’t into women? Huh?” I ask demandingly and then lean right back in to kiss her again. She breathes against my mouth unevenly, and I’ve got her. She’s always had a weakness for being bossed around.

“Ryan, what are you –” she starts to ask when I break the kiss, but she ends up moaning when I move to her neck, sucking on the skin, and my hands are pulling her skirt up, piling it around her waist. “We’re in the middle of the street!” she exclaims, but that’s the point. It’s quiet, but someone could easily see or walk by, and she’s always had a kink for that. I’ve got a hand inside her panties within seconds, slipping into her warmth. Her breathing hitches when my forefinger presses against her clit.

I attack her mouth again, feeling so fucking desperate, but not to get off, not to fuck her, but just to make this nightmare stop. I like women. I _like_ fucking Jac. I’ve just forgotten that, and I need reminding that I don’t get on my hands and knees for anyone. For other men. God, I’m not like that.

“You believe me now?” I ask against her lips.

“Maybe,” she groans, pushing her hips forwards, and my fingers move from her clit and slip further. She’s starting to get wet already. I’m half-hard. Of course I am. I’m not fucking relieved by it, for god’s sake. She asks, “You gonna fuck me here?”

“Maybe,” I counter and capture her bottom lip, sucking on it. I can make her come in ways Brent can only dream of.

“Prove it,” she breathes, and I hum in question, letting myself suck on her earlobe. She smells of perfume, fruity and sweet. “Prove that – _Ryan_ ,” she adds helplessly as I push a finger in her. I don’t give a fuck that cars are driving by just behind us. I don’t care anymore, about anything. Her hands get tangled in my hair, and she brings her mouth to my ear, her words urgent. “Prove that there’s nothing going on with you and him.”

I pull my hand back a little, going back to rubbing her clit, but now without focusing on it.

“Ryan,” she whines slightly, her cheeks flushed. I pull my hand out of her underwear, the tips of my fingers wet.

“And how am I supposed to do that?” I ask, my voice husky.

She tries to catch her breath, her blonde hair messy and covering half of her face. “Show me.”

* * *

Brendon doesn’t notice me at first as he’s halfway into his bunk, on the tips of his toes as he leans inside. I watch from the doorway, staring at the way his red, tight t-shirt is too short for him, the way his jeans cup his ass. He knows what his best features are and shows them off. I’m reminded of the first time I saw him. Pretty much this exact same spot.

“Hey,” I say eventually, and a loud thump follows as Brendon hits his head to the bunk ceiling.

He retreats instantly, rubbing his head and forcing a half-smile as he looks at me. “Jesus, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” I try to sound smooth. Not nervous. Not wrecked. “Looking for something?”

“My Jack Daniel’s t-shirt. William’s probably stolen it, and his limbs are all _long_ and if he pulls it out of shape, I’ll...” he mutters, but his eyes are on me and he’s smiling. “Anyway. How are you?”

I shrug nonchalantly as he walks over, and he doesn’t stop where, say, Spencer would, but he steps right into my space, and I meet him halfway, our lips brushing together as a greeting. He places a hand on my hip, fingers absently playing with the fabric of the dress shirt that disappears into my pants. He doesn’t stand as close as he could, and there’s an awareness about him that says he is processing where to place his hands, what to do, what not to do. He’s been spending the past few days waiting for me to give him the okay. It couldn’t be more different from him inviting himself to my home when we first got to LA.

He smiles at me warmly. “So what did you do last night?”

“Jac and I went to a friend’s house, and we all got high,” I sum up, voice flat as it really wasn’t anything worth getting excited about. “You?”

“We got drunk and danced all night. Andy passed out, we called Zack at the hotel, and then he came to pick us up. He was kind of pissed about that,” he chuckles. I try to smile but can’t. Everything feels heavy right now, the same kind of nausea settling in that I experienced when Jac asked me if I was in love with Brendon. He frowns at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I nod, and that’s a lie. I lie too much. I’m not sure if I always have, but it’s become second nature so I no longer notice it. And I’m not okay either and can’t remember the last time I was. When I was younger, I wanted to prove that I could make a name for myself, and then when I did, I never felt any different. Brendon clearly doesn’t buy my words, so I try and get to the point. “I was talking to Jac about... the fact that I’ve been sleeping with you.”

His eyes widen, and he steps back. “You told her?”

“Brent told her.” Brendon opens his mouth, but I cut him off with, “I know, an asshole move. And they know that I know about them and, really, we all know now, but Jac and I, we get each other. She’s a smart girl. I’m lucky to have her, really.”

“You call that lucky?” he asks, and I give him a glare. He better not have a go at her. He doesn’t even know her. “So what are... I mean.” He looks confused. “What did she say? Did you two break up?” He might sound just the tiniest bit hopeful. If he is, he covers it up with forced neutrality.

“No.”

He frowns. “But she’s been sleeping with Brent.”

“Like I’ve been doing that much better,” I note, and he looks a bit like I’ve just slapped him. I didn’t – I didn’t mean it like _that_. It’s not him exactly. It’s what he inevitably is – a man – and it’s not like he can help that. “Look, we were talking and then I- Well, I got an idea, and I mean that- I think we should have a threesome. Jac, you and me.”

He blinks. He stares. He takes a further two steps back, expression one of complete confusion. “What?”

“She thinks you’re hot. She liked the idea. You fuck her, I fuck you, we can do loads of things. It’ll be fun.” I ignore how I’m trying to sell the idea, how crude it sounds when I actually voice it.

“You... want me to fuck your girlfriend?”

I nod, because really, that sums it up. I’ll be there too, and Jac will see how it’s just a kink. She will see how we can share that kink and how Brendon and I don’t have a thing. Brendon goes from looking confused to downright pissed. “I’m gay, Ryan.”

“So?”

“So?!” he repeats angrily. “How is that hard to get? I don’t sleep with women! I’m not attracted to women! And even if tomorrow I woke up with a craving for pussy, Jac would not be the first on my list!”

“Hey!”

“She’s sleazy! Come on, you fucking know she is,” he barks angrily. That’s not even true; Jac is classy in her own way. “I can’t believe you’re asking me to do that,” he says, and Jesus Christ, he’s being a prude now? He sleeps around plenty. What a hypocrite.

“Come on, not like it’d be our first threesome,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

“But I’m gay!”

“And I’m straight, but I’m still fucking you, aren’t I?!” I snap at him, letting my volume rise up the way he’s doing.

“Oh, right, you’re _straight_. I almost forgot for a minute! How many heterosexual men do you know who fuck other men? I’m just asking out of curiosity,” he notes, voice heavy with sarcasm, and I don’t like what he’s implying. “I mean, can you even admit the possibility that you just _might_ be –”

“You better not go there,” I say sharply, my hands curling into fists.

He keeps his lips pursed and drops his gaze from my face, and I can sense his disappointment and anger. He doesn’t see where I’m coming from with this. It’s my own fault, really, for getting into this mess. You would think that _he_ would be open to the idea of a straight man who just likes fucking men. Likes fucking him. Hell, he sure loves getting fucked, so why the hell is he complaining? The guys don’t get it, Jac doesn’t get it, and right now even I don’t get it. But I thought that he at least would.

“You work for me,” I then note, even if it’s not true. He works for Pete. “You should do what I say.”

“But I will never do that!” he snaps, voice sad and anguished. He looks at me like I’m someone he doesn’t even know. Most of the time, it’s exactly how I feel, looking into the mirror and realising I’m someone I’ve never met. But I’m not a fag. I have a girlfriend. And I’m offering Brendon a chance to be a part of that arrangement, and he better fucking take it. He can’t be as stupid as not to take it. If he doesn’t, then that’s it. That’s the end. I’ve exhausted my brain trying to make the puzzles fit, and this is the only way that I can.

“This is about the other night, isn’t it?” he now asks quietly, voice sad somehow, and I feel my guts burn from the memory. “You’ve been acting weird ever since we- But you don’t have to. Ryan, you don’t have to prove anything,” he rushes out, now stepping closer to me again. “They’re just labels, and you don’t have to say you’re one thing or the next. I’m fine with that. Really, I won’t care if you just don’t make me do this, if you –”

His voice has sounded increasingly more anguished, and I can’t stand it, not coming from him, and I grab his wrist and pull him in for a kiss. He kisses me back instantly, hands on the sides of my face, and it’s desperate, the kiss, me, him, and he tastes good. I just like how he tastes and smells and feels, how insane he makes me feel. And that has got to stop.

“Ryan, please,” he whispers against my lips. I shake my head, hands on his hips and holding onto him tight, my eyes closed. “You’re panicking, that’s all. I didn’t mean to push you too far, I thought you – I just wanted you so bad, I’m sorry if I –”

“It’s not about that,” I force myself to say. And it’s not. He talked me into it, but I wanted it. I wanted him in any way I could get. And that’s the problem. That need. I take steps back, letting him slip from my grip. “I’m practically inviting you to bed with me and Jac. Don’t be stupid, Bren.”

He stares at me in astonishment. “But I won’t do it.”

“What do you mean you won’t do it?” I snap.

“You’re honestly going to choose her over me?”

Choose? Is there a choice? What exactly does he think is going on here? I was never going to choose him. There was never any choice – it’s a damn tour fling, if even that. And Jac’s not perfect; she’s made some bad decisions just like I have. And now Brendon is assuming things, based on what? That I let him fuck me once? Please.

“Choose?” I repeat incredulously, almost amused, focusing on that rather than the pain in my chest. And when I think about it rationally, I realise how laughable this situation is. Who the hell even is this guy?

His jaw sets tight. “Forget it.”

“No, let’s not. Let’s talk about this bit where you think for some ridiculous reason that I’d leave Jac for you. It’s like Brent thinking she’d leave me. She and Brent have nothing mutual there, that’s for sure, and you and I? We have sex. That’s all we fucking do. We –”

“Okay. Great. I get your point,” he says.

“Do you? Because –”

“Stop! Just – stop talking!” he snaps at me, but he’s not upset like he was a minute ago. His hands hang by his sides as he seems to take my words in. When he looks up, there’s cruelty to his features, but I’m not sure if he plans on being cruel to me or himself. “You’ve made your point.”

I take in a deep breath. “Good. And the offer still stands.” God, I need a drink right about now too. But I did this. Did what I was meant to do. “How’s tonight for you?”

“For what?”

“The sex.”

“There’ll be no sex,” he says, and now is my turn to feel confused. “I’m sorry, did I not make _my_ point?” he asks in faux surprise. “Let me break it down for you! Never in a million fucking years would I join you and your girlfriend as some kind of a fucked up sex toy. Alright? Is that clear enough?”

“God, fags are dramatic,” I groan with a roll of my eyes.

“Did you just –” he starts snapping before he must realise that he’s proving my point. “I can’t do this,” he then says, sounding like he’s speaking to himself rather than at me. He swallows hard, shaking his head. “No, I- I quit.”

I laugh involuntarily, amused by his idle threats. Someone’s a bit touchy today. “Is this like when I quit the band?” I ask as he now removes the all access pass around his neck.

“No, this is not like one of your mood swings,” he says, and I try not to feel offended by his comment. I don’t have fucking mood swings. He passes me the pass, which I automatically take. “Unlike you, I can actually quit. And I just did.”

He pushes past me into the bus lounge, and I follow him, feeling angrier with every second that passes. “Brendon, stop messing around.” He doesn’t listen to me, but I grab his arm, forcing him to turn around.

“Don’t touch me!” he snaps and pulls himself free.

“Well, that’s a first.”

“Fuck you!” he spits venomously and keeps going, now reaching the driver’s seat.

“Would you just wait?!” I bark at him angrily. We still have a handful of shows left. He can’t quit. For fuck’s sake, he’s pissed off and I can see that, but now he’s just being fucking childish.

He turns to face me, and I’ve never seen him like this. He’s been angry, pissed off, sad, reserved, but this is all of those things at once, like there’s chaos inside him that he’s trying to contain but is barely managing it. “What do you want from me?” he asks. It comes out broken.

“I –”

I can’t finish the sentence. I want him to do as I say, and I want him not to be so goddamn stubborn. I want him to see how this is the only solution there is. I want things he won’t give because he’s too damn inflexible, too sure of himself, completely unwilling to compromise. And I envy that.

“You can’t fucking quit,” I snarl instead.

“Give me one good reason not to,” he challenges me, eyes angry. I open my mouth, mind racing. I can’t think of one half-truthful thing to say. He scoffs. “That’s what I thought.”

His pass is still in my hand, and I clutch it violently, feeling it materialise in my hand as something else entirely, the absence of him if he goes, that feeling of –

“If you do this, I _swear_ I’ll make you regret it.”

He laughs. “What could you possibly do?” He’s right. There’s nothing I can do. Write an angry song at most, but he doesn’t deserve that much. I feel even angrier because of it. “Tell Pete I left,” he adds, pressing one of the dashboard’s buttons, and the bus’s doors open.

“Brendon!” I say, like repeating his name will make him change his mind. The panic has set in now as I realise that he’s not kidding. He’s angry, overreacting, being irrational. But if I know one thing, it’s leaving, and Brendon’s standing in front of me, and I can tell that he’s packed his bags, set his course, his sails are now flapping in the wind, and he looks at me with hurt and anger, and I never wanted him to look at me like that. I thought he’d be the one person not to see me like they do.

He’s made up his mind. He’s ready to just leave me. God, he’s no different from the rest of them. “Okay, then go!” I snap, motioning at the opened doors. “Go on then! Fucking go! You think we can’t replace you in an hour? You think _I_ can’t fucking replace you in ten minutes?”

“I know you can,” he says, and I don’t like how he sounds. It was supposed to piss him off, but this acceptance is even worse.

“Then what are you still doing here?”

“Don’t worry. I’m fucking gone,” he swears and gets off the bus.

And, just like that, he is.


	9. A Decent Human Being

“I was talking to Brent,” Spencer says, and it’s good to know that those two are still talking at least, though that’s a lie and it’s not good at all, and I can’t even begin to emphasise how many dozen sarcastic comebacks I’d have for that if I cared enough to say them. I wonder if I ever cared, even when things were good. “Ryan,” Spencer says impatiently, and I move my gaze from the patch of grey backstage wall to him. I should be doing interviews right now. Seventy-six interviews. Two million to the exponent of pi. It’s early afternoon, the venue full of rushed voices as the techs get everything ready for yet another show. We’re waiting around like nothing ever changes. But it has to.

“God, what are you on?” Spencer sighs restlessly.

“This and that,” I reply truthfully. Whatever I managed to find, all in moderation. When have I ever done anything in excess?

“Listen. I didn’t know about Jac and Brent. You know I would’ve told you, right? If I had known. I mean, she left him, so maybe you two can just forget about it. We shouldn’t let her be that thing.”

That thing that breaks us apart. No, I was never going to let her be that person. Not for the band and especially not for me.

“She’s still my girl,” I say, not knowing what I mean by it. She still has the spare key to my place. She’s cried plenty and apologised more, saying if she can live with my disgusting little episode with a roadie, I can surely live with her digressions. I don’t know if I’ve said I’m sorry. Did I say it at some point? Did I mean it? She said that it’s good now. That he’s left and gone. Said I feel distant. Not to do with him, is it? Of course not. I fucked her to prove it. “A new page for us,” I tell Spencer, repeating Jac’s words. She said something about us maybe trying to take the next step together. The only step I can see us taking is over the ledge.

Brent’s heart’s been broken. I feel sorry for some reason.

“You want to talk about it?” Spencer offers, and he doesn’t actually want me to talk about it. I shake my head. “What about Brendon? You want to talk about him?”

I can hear Andy and Joe singing back in the dressing room, the sound resonating along the corridor and to us. Joe’s over the moon that the fag’s gone. I’m fine with it. So he left. See who cares. Not me.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask Spencer instead. He’s clutching at straws. He’s always been the guy trying to keep us together, but he knows we’re a joke. He goes back and forth between Haley and this band like he can’t decide which one he should choose. But if there’s something he’s not, it’s a quitter. He can’t admit defeat. Can’t walk away. Doesn’t have it in him.

I lost. They all won. I can admit my loss.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he now asks, ignoring my question, and what is this? Why the third degree? “God, get some fucking sleep, Ryan, and _don’t_ take anything.” Spencer steps forward and snatches the flask from my grip, and I protest and try to get it back, but he pockets it. “Brendon quit. Deal with it, alright? Don’t- Don’t do this pathetic booze and drugs routine because it’s not a solution! What is it about him that riles you up? Why do you let him get to you?”

“I don’t.”

“Then pull yourself together,” Spencer says, disappointment clear in his voice.

He heads to the dressing room, and anger bubbles in me. Everyone just fucking leaves. Spencer, Brendon. Like I’m that easy to leave behind. Like anyone has the right. I call out, “You and Haley still on a break? How’s that working for you? When you get back to fucking Cincinnati, you think Suzie will recognise you? Because I doubt it. I think she’ll fucking cry.” I sigh and close my eyes, listening to the bangs and shouts echoing around the corridors and rooms. God, Suzie will bawl her small eyes out.

Suddenly, a weight hits my side and I crash to the floor, and then it’s a mess of hands and poorly aimed kicks and a struggle for glory, followed by loud, aggressive swearing, and then Brent and Pete show up, and Zack’s pulled Spencer off of me and is shoving Spencer away as he curses that I better never as much as say the name of his wife or daughter again when I don’t even fucking know or he will –

My lower lip feels sore, the taste of iron in my mouth. “I don’t know what to do with you!” Pete exclaims, hands up in the air as he stares at me on the floor and then after Spencer and Zack. “Don’t know what to do anymore!”

“He hit me,” I note.

“Good that someone did!” Pete barks. “Go sleep it the fuck off!” He slams the wall as he goes, but Brent is still here, and maybe he’s pleased. Probably is.

“And she chose you,” he says disbelievingly, an angered look in his eyes as I get back to my feet. Why wouldn’t she choose me? I’m a catch. Rich. Famous. Got a nice ass. “Are you honestly moping after Brendon? Fuck, that’s so sick.”

“Trying to forget Jac, actually. Is it just me or has she put on some weight? Disgusting, really.”

“You’d love for me to punch your lights out, huh?” he asks, and I’m not sure. Maybe. No. That’d hurt. No, that wouldn’t be nice at all. “All summer you’ve only gotten drunk and fucked around, but now you’ve added insults to your repertoire. Fucking well done. Even Spencer hates you now. I knew it wouldn’t be good to have a fag on the crew, but fuck, I didn’t realise it’d be because you’d get involved with him. Fuck! I told Nate that I didn’t want a cocksucker on the bus, and I ended up with one in the band instead.” He scoffs. “Still, at least I’ve seen both of you sissies take a punch. Makes me feel a bit better.”

“Nate who?” I ask tiredly, trying to follow his train of thought and failing, though I fully grasp the overall message of ‘I hate you’. “Oh,” I then add. I know when I’ve seen Brendon get punched. St. Louis. He took it like a man. He looked fucking gorgeous, even with the blood on his face. A melody starts ringing in my head, a low, soft voice, and I think of Jon Walker and how he had a damn nice voice. I should’ve known he never ratted out Brendon. That would have mattered so much a month ago. Even two days ago. That would have made a difference, might have been a defining moment in my life. But now it doesn’t matter. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell Brent. “None of it matters. All missed chances. That’s all life is. Jon was just a fucking random guy, anyway. Would have gotten sick of me quickly.”

“Jon who?” he now returns, and we miss each other, his thoughts there, mine here, and we’ll never meet again, Brent and I. “Another boyfriend of yours?”

I grit my teeth. Brendon wasn’t my –

“Out of curiosity, then, do you give or take, Ross?” My guts twist on their own accord. Brendon’s lips on my back, hushed encouragements as he pushes into me, and I tremble and come, loving every second of it.

“Leave,” I finally say, feeling sick to my stomach. “Fucking go.”

He gives me the onceover, shaking his head. “Sleep it off. We’ve got a show in a few hours. Even fags like you have to do their jobs.”

“Funny how I’m still fucking the girl of your dreams,” I note, and he looks murderous before he storms down the corridor. I check my pockets frantically, only then remembering that Spencer took my flask. The fucker.

* * *

There’s something sad about emptied venues after shows. The stench of people pressed against each other lingers in the air, and then all that’s left is a void and paper cups and torn fliers and gig tickets and maybe a broken necklace somewhere in the mess of either a huge, empty hall now ringing with its nothingness or dancing amongst rows of emptied seats, like trampled bodies left on a battlefield. All proof that something happened here and is now over. Maybe a boy and a girl laid eyes on each other in the crowd tonight. Maybe someone found the person they are destined to be with. But not me. Not anyone who was on stage.

The more we bring people together, the more we fall apart. The more people disappear.

I shouldn’t be surprised. People have always assumed they can just leave me. Even my mother. Really, should have known already then that I was doomed when she defied nature and didn’t give a fuck.

“Mister Ross?”

I tear my eyes off of the now empty stage and look to my side where the venue manager is staring at me apprehensively, holding a clipboard. He’s older than me but treats me like I am far superior. It’s dispiriting somehow, an inversion of the world.

“I’m about to lock the doors. You have to leave.”

I take in a deep breath, fighting the nausea inside. Maybe it’s something in me, something integrated I can’t get rid of. Like I’m cursed. And all this, the success and the fame, are just more ways that the world is trying to tell me that I can have anything except what I want.

“I’m the only one left?” I ask.

“You are.”

He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know already.

He asks, “Are you feeling alright?”

I’m hungover and coming down, not really remembering much of the past twenty or so hours. He quit. We played a show. Jac and I went to her place. Couldn’t sleep. She tasted... Couldn’t stand my thoughts. Went home. Popped some pills.

Instead of answering, I pick up the guitar gig bag that’s been lying on the floor next to me, hauling it on one shoulder, and the man escorts us out of the backstage maze and into the night. It’s raining a little, drizzling more like, and the man makes small talk, saying how they’ve promised rain all next week and that it’s been a pleasure having us and that he hopes to see us again and goodnight. I manage to stop a taxi after standing in the rain for too long, climbing in, wiping water off my face and shrinking into the backseat unceremoniously. My body feels weak, my skin sweaty and clammy, but not from the show or the rain, just withdrawal.

When I get home, my suitcase blocks the way to the bedroom, open and half-empty. A gaping hole, a devouring mouth. I only need a few shirts to last the next week or so until we’re done with the tour. I need to pack. I should be efficient for once, get everything ready.

I don’t.

I walk to the bedroom and undress myself, letting the clothes drop into a pile at my feet until I am bare. Two girls fainted tonight. I can’t understand what for. This body? It’s just a shell.

I slip between the covers of my bed, eyes closing. The sheets have come stains on them and have that lingering smell of sweat in them. I need to wash them. Burn them. Throw them out entirely. They’ll always smell like him.

He didn’t show up tonight. William said that he’s gone back to San Francisco, but I thought it was just more theatrics. It wasn’t. We went on stage, played the last LA show, walked off stage, and he never arrived.

He’ll come around, though, when we get to San Francisco. He’ll come crawling back.

* * *

Brendon used to work at the Winterland Ballroom with William, and he told me he was looking forward to our two shows there, but now he isn’t with us at all. Even the prospect of meeting old friends isn’t enough to make him grit his teeth and bear my company. He couldn’t stand the sight of me in the end. William, who hates me as much as everyone else if not more, is hanging out with the venue staff when I get off of the bus late afternoon. Sleep finally caught up with me after two nights of persistent insomnia, but I don’t feel rested. Instead, I wake up and realise that this is reality and not a dream, and I fight off the bitter taste in my mouth.

Brendon will be here tonight. He’s in San Francisco, anyway, so he will come. He’s realised that he made a mistake, that he doesn’t get to say no to me. I make the rules. He obeys. I half-expect him to be somewhere backstage already, talking to Zack, setting up gear, restringing a guitar, giving me an apologetic look, and I’ll accept. Of course I will if I see him repent as he should. I’ll tell him how wrong he was to leave like that, and he’ll say he’s sorry, eyes full of regret, and I’ll tell him to just forget about it, my hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He’ll close the gap between our lips.

But he’s nowhere to be found.

Pete is making notes of the merchandise boxes that have been piled up by the stage, and I walk over, trying to focus on the matter at hand. “When’s soundcheck?” I ask, and he looks up as if mildly surprised to see me up and about.

“It’s done. We did it without you. It’s fine, really. You on something?”

“No.” I don’t even bother trying to sound defensive. I rub my nose, a shiver running through me. I don’t need a mirror to know how I look, pale and tired, like some random junkie. I can handle the drugs and alcohol. I can too. “Brendon here yet?”

He looks at me incredulously. “He quit. Remember?”

“He’s still got stuff on the bus.”

Pete scratches the side of his head, nodding, like trying to distract himself from something unpleasant. “William said he’s taking that to Brendon later.” He sighs. “Shitty on the other guys, them having to do Brendon’s job. It’s only for a few shows, though. We’ll manage.”

“I guess.”

Pete quickly escorts me to the dressing room where food is waiting, and I sit on the couch, stuffing my face with tasteless mini sandwiches. I keep waiting for Brendon to show up. Maybe he’s just scared, knowing how badly he fucked up. I can be merciful.

The venue opens its doors, and he’s not here. I start smoking to do something with my hands, knees bouncing, palms sweating, eyes darting to the door every few seconds. Sitting still eventually becomes too much so I wander around the backstage area instead, making sure I’m informed the second he arrives. The support band is getting ready, its members coming over to talk to me and tell me how much they appreciate the opportunity of opening for us, for me specially, for Ryan Ross, how amazing they think I am, how my dedication is inspiring, the way I lay myself bare, and I try to smile, knowing I look hungover and disinterested. They leave me alone quickly.

“Well?” I ask Andy when he passes me, and he gives me a blank look, so I assume there is no news.

Brendon’s not here when we go on. The crowd is jumping and cheering, and Brent and Spencer walk on stage first, and Joe waits for a few seconds before he follows, increasing the volume of the yelling and whistling and clapping, and then finally I walk on. I feel like a ghost. The only way I know I exist is because they react to me.

“Beautiful San Francisco!” Joe is already yelling into his microphone when I get to my mic stand. “How you doing tonight?”

Not well.

The hall is huge. Hundreds upon hundreds of people blur together into a sea of heads, and when I look up, I see the people up on the balcony that encircles the centre, and they’re all standing and clapping too. Thousands of them. Four of us. I used to be fucking terrified of these situations, but now I don’t even care.

We’re three songs in when Andy hurries to hand me my next guitar. The kids are cheering and stomping, and Joe is talking bullshit into his microphone about how much we appreciate them coming out and supporting us, that’s it’s been one heck of a summer and that we’re keeping it real. I grab Andy’s arm as he’s about to turn away. “Brendon here?”

“No!” he says, having to shout it over the noise. “He’s not coming back, man.” He might even look sympathetic for a second before his expression goes blank, like he remembers things he doesn’t want to. I’ve always liked Andy for his objectivity, the way he sees himself as an outsider observing his surroundings, smoking up every day, lost in his thoughts. But even he can’t retain that objectivity now, after finding out what two men were doing on that bus while he was on it. I’d be ashamed if I could. Instead I only feel fucking broken.

A girl front row is screaming for me to marry her.

William comes over to hand me my twelve-string guitar when we’re about to kick into _Miranda’s Dream_. “Do you know where Brendon is?” I ask him, not giving a fuck I’m on stage, that they want me to sing and jump for them like a marionette. I might sing stories, I might sing facts or sins or tragedies, but that doesn’t mean that they have a right to me. And if I choose to question William in the middle of our show, then I will.

“Look –” William starts, and I know he’s planning on lying, so I say, “Don’t fuck with me. You know where he is, so don’t start with me. Where is he?”

“Ry,” Joe says, having walked over to us, guitar hanging around him, and he glares at me and nods at the crowd. William takes the opportunity to rush off stage, and I stare after him angrily. I plug in the guitar, marching to the mic stand, stepping on the right pedals. Let’s play these fucking songs then.

When we finish the show and get off stage, William tries to hide behind Zack to no avail. I take a hold of his arm and drag him away from the rest, glaring. “You tell me where he is.”

William pulls himself to his fullest height, and he’s taller than me, trying to look decisive and impenetrable. “Not happening.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” I say venomously, and his eyes widen a little as he takes a cautious step back.

* * *

Castro Street, San Francisco. Fag central. I should’ve known. It’s after midnight, but the street is not deserted. Not at all. In fact, I think I’ve been eyefucked more in the past five minutes than I have been all summer, and that’s saying something. It sickens me.

I keep carrying the small cardboard box that was used for Followers t-shirts at some point but is now filled with Brendon’s leftover belongings. I went through them in the taxi. A few books. Socks. Shirts I recognise. Meaningless shit that somehow amounts to one man’s life, but Brendon should have more than this. It’s like Brendon could disappear if he wanted to. He has before.

I finally spot the dry cleaners William told me about. At least he didn’t lie about that. I stop outside the darkened windows, feeling out of place and angered by it, that he’s reducing me to this, and I glare at the guy who walks past me, eyeing me up and down. “You fucking want something?” I snap angrily, and when he doesn’t reply but keeps his eyes on me, I audibly mutter, “Fag.”

The guy scoffs loudly but walks faster, and I quickly knock on the door of the shop. To my surprise, a light gets switched on almost instantly, though I was convinced that this was a hoax and William just said something to get me off his back.

The light from the back room illuminates a counter and behind it clothes racks, and I see the silhouette of a large man make his way over to the door. He’s around forty, balding and large-built, a ball shaped head with two knowing eyes. I expect a man like him to have a low, booming voice, but when he opens the door and says, “Well, sweetheart, you’re certainly not Billy,” his voice is feminine and decorated with a lisp.

“No kidding.”

“Feisty,” he now adds, grinning.

“Is –”

“I know why you’re here, honey,” he cuts me off, leaning against the doorframe. He’s studying me intensely with obvious curiosity, and he manages to stare me down. I notice that under the cuffs of his bell jeans, he’s wearing high heels. _High heels_. “I’ve seen you in magazines. Saw you on TV once too. They play that one song constantly on AM radio.”

“So they do.”

“What does that make you then? The new Bob Dylan?” he asks, and when I remain silent, he goes on. “I don’t like Bob Dylan much. Too depressing. Maybe you’re the new John Lennon or Lou Reed or one of those guys. Twenty years from now, your name will be on that list, which is pretty funny if you ask me. I only see a very confused looking young man myself.”

“I’m not confused,” I object.

He laughs a little. “Well, aren’t you precious.”

“Is Brendon here?”

“You got a cigarette?” he counters, and I go through my pockets and find a half-full pack. He takes the entire thing, getting one out and pocketing the rest. “He’s upstairs.” He lights up the cigarette and sucks on the end greedily. “I think I’ll go drop by the bar, see if I can get laid. Give you kids some privacy.”

“That’s not –”

“Really, don’t worry about me interrupting _anything_. I’ll be out all night.”

“I’m not here for that,” I snap angrily. Or maybe I am. Maybe I intend to do just that. Find him, not say anything, just push him on the nearest available bed and kiss every single inch of him before fucking him all night. Tell him to forget about it. It was just a stupid fight. Doesn’t have to change anything. We can go back to what we had.

Please let it be that easy.

“Sure, darling. Whatever you say.” He steps out, leaving me to hold the door open. He instantly starts walking away, but he looks over his shoulder to add, “It means something, you know. That you came.” And then he walks on, high heels clicking against the concrete under his feet, a small sway to his hips.

“What the fuck?” I ask myself quietly before stepping inside. What kind of people does Brendon associate himself with?

I quickly get to the backroom, following the light that’s on, and sure enough there are stairs going up. A door blocks the way at the top, but it’s unlocked, and so I step into someone’s apartment, presumably the guy’s. I stand in a small, unlit hallway, hearing the radio crackling in one of the rooms but not knowing which one.

I walk on quietly before hearing guitar from the room to my left. A song. One of ours. One of mine.

I readjust my hold of the box under my arm before pushing the door open, and it gives way, creaking. It’s a small bedroom if I choose to ignore how there’s no actual bed, just a mattress and a chest of drawers, and on the mattress is a man sitting with his back to me, facing the window, and he’s got a guitar that he’s playing, humming along quietly. A green curtain covers the window, but the fabric isn’t thick and red neon lights of the bar opposite flash through, a constant and sickening ‘Open’. And this is where he’s hiding. This is the kingdom he chose instead of me.

The floorboards creak under my feet as I step in, and Brendon asks, “So did they get back to you about that job, Terry?”

I pause, holding my breath. “I might have a job for you.”

Brendon’s up on his feet faster than humanly possible, holding the guitar by the neck and staring at me with wide eyes. He looks much like his brain is stuck processing what I struggled to do in LA: him. In this world. “What are you doing here?” he asks, speaking too fast.

“Brought you your stuff,” I explain, now going to the chest of drawers and placing the box on top. Brendon’s bag is on the floor by the mattress, clothes in two messy piles next to it, but that’s it. Is this all the stuff he owns?

“William was supposed to bring me that.”

“Guess you’ll have to settle with me,” I say, and he puts the guitar away, carefully placing it to lean against the wall. He seems to be in shock, and I try not to yell at him like I want to. Brendon has got to be the only person in this world who’d choose a dump like this over me. They all want me. The fans. The press. The world. I’m important. I matter. Fuck what my band says – they’re all jealous. It’s like the guy said, that I’m a legend in the making. And Brendon dares to claim he’s not interested. “So Terry, did you say? He’s a character.”

He smiles uneasily. “He... Well, yeah. But he’s a good guy. He helps people out. Usually kids that are new around here.” He’s not new but clearly doesn’t have much to show for that. The shock seems to be fading, and instead he looks angered and hurt. It makes the fear in me that much more obvious, the one that hasn’t gone away since he left. “What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?” I counter, staring him down.

“Last time I checked it was to fuck your girlfriend.”

“Already took care of that.”

His eyes thin dangerously. “Good for you.”

I bite on my tongue, trying to keep my remarks to myself. Instead, I say, “We just played a show. Will, Andy and Zack are stuck doing your job.”

“Oh, so you’re here on behalf of the road crew?” he asks disbelievingly.

“Maybe.” Another lie. The band’s happy he’s gone, Zack and Andy are pissed off at me and him alike, Pete’s just furious with Brendon, and William thinks I’m a cunt and that Brendon’s better off leaving. No one else wants him there except for me. I stare at his bare toes and see the way the neon light illuminates them every four or so seconds. “God, I’m fucking pissed off at you,” I then sigh without any venom at all.

“You’re not on my good list either, you know.”

I look up at him, feeling my insides knotting tight. Of course I’m not. He despises me as much as I despise him, but I have the right to act the way I do. I have excuses. The pressure. The expectations. I’m just human. I can’t be that mythic figure that they are trying to carve out of me. He doesn’t have any of those excuses. “Brendon, _I’m_ asking you. I’ve come to this... I don’t even know what to call this place,” I scoff, looking around in disdain. “But I’m here. Alright? You won. So stop being a bitch and do as I say.”

“I won?” he repeats disbelievingly. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything! I’m not – You think I’m testing you? I quit, Ryan. What the hell is unclear about that?”

“You didn’t _actually_ quit.”

“Uh, I did.”

“You don’t get to leave me!” I snap angrily.

“Where do you get off?” he asks quietly but with obvious rage in his tone, his eyes dark but not with want like they’ve so often been. The opposite of want. Repulsion. “You think you can control other people? Me? Fuck you! I do whatever I want, and I certainly quit whenever I want! And if that’s all you came to say, then there’s the fucking door. Have a nice life, you asshole.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then I guess I’ll do the honour,” he snaps and walks to the door, but I’m quick to block the way, slamming the door shut when he tries to open it. His eyes are full of defiance, and it’s amazing how all the small moments slip away somehow. The light touches. Hushed words. The warmth of his skin. And I’m so full of anger that I don’t know what to do. I can bend anyone in this world to my will. Anyone, except him. He has nothing to show for himself, but he acts like he’s in a position to choose. It’s fucking arrogant.

“Brendon, I’m telling you.”

“You don’t even know what you’re asking. You don’t know how to treat people, you –”

“I was fine before you came along! I was fucking fine, and now I’m not! I’m a fucking mess! And it’s your fault, all your fault, so you don’t get to walk away from me!”

He swallows hard but seems resigned, and maybe where my anger turns me into a wreck, his brings him clarity. “I think it’s time you leave.”

“Stop fighting me on this!” I tell him angrily. I ignore the way my heart is hammering inside my chest. Fuck, I can’t give him more than this. He has to accept that. Has to. “I need you on that bus,” I say roughly.

He shakes his head and steps further away, backing away, from me, out of all people, like I’m a time bomb about to explode. I lean against the door, feeling stupid and desperate and bitter.

He looks a little sorry. Maybe. Or maybe I just hope that he is, that this is hurting him too. That the past few days have been as torturous for him as they’ve been for me. That he missed me. All of it. That sometimes it’s all he can think of, and the loss hangs over him, pushing him down.

There’s solemn determination on his face. “I’ve gone through too much to be someone’s dirty little secret.”

“Don’t think so goddamn highly of yourself.” When he narrows his eyes at me, I press on. “So your dad smacked you around and broke your arm. Am I, what? Expected to kneel at your feet because you had a rough time growing up? Join your fucking generation.” Mentioning his past works flawlessly: his eyes flash dangerously and his hands curl into fists. Maybe he will try and take a swing at me. Spencer already did, so why not him too? It’d be easier. We beat each other up, and it’s closure. I won’t have to think of him anymore. Don’t have to miss him. “You’d be fucking lucky to be my dirty secret,” I tell him.

He looks continually more disbelieving. “God, you – You waltz in here and try to tell me what to do! Like you own me, like you get to say this shit to me! You don’t even want me,” he snarls. “You want things you don’t have. Right now, that’s me. Other times, it’s the band. When you have it, you resent it, and then the second it starts to slip away, you run back to them. You’re just a confused little boy.”

“Don’t fucking belittle me!” I snap angrily. And I’m not confused. Terry said it, now Brendon’s saying it, like I’m having an identity crisis of some kind. “You have no idea how much I’ve put on the line for you, you ungrateful fag!”

“That’s it! Get the fuck out!” he barks, grabbing a hold of my arm, fingers digging in painfully, but it’s soothing somehow. If I feel the pain, I still exist. He wrenches the door open and pulls us both out of the room and into the dark hallway. When I can’t free myself from his hold, I shove him backwards. His hold of me loosens and his back slams again the wall loudly.

I see the outlines of his features in the dark, finding myself standing in the beam of light that comes from his room. “You’re a fag but get offended when someone calls you that,” I remark.

“Right back at you.”

The fury in me bubbles over, a blinding rage from his insolence. “Don’t you _ever_ call me a fag, you –”

“I don’t care anymore! You come to my home –”

“Your _home_?!”

“Whatever it is! You come here and you think you’ve got the right, but you don’t!” he barks, but his voice is anguished and self-deprecating somehow. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I fucking told myself early on to remember that you were just a selfish prick, but I forgot. I let myself- Just get the hell out, Ryan.”

“I know what you were thinking! You got off on getting fucked by a rock star. Made you feel good. Got a rush out of it. Someone fucking famous! A nice step up from letting dirty middle-aged married men fuck your underage ass in motels! You’re just like the rest of them! You use me, and then when I offend your stupid fucking feelings, you take off!”

“Fuck you!” he snaps fervently. “I never cared one fucking bit how famous you are! Fuck, you’re not... you’re not even a decent human being. You’re cruel, and you’re vile. I can’t believe I was letting myself fall in love with you.”

My response is automatic, rolling off my tongue instantly. “God, that would have been too pathetic even for me to bear.”

My words hang in the air between us, ugly and hurtful.

“Get out,” he whispers. There’s an edge to his words, something painful that cuts through my skin like sharp glass. It’s only then that his actual words reach my brain, and I feel breathless and hollow and panicked, like the entire world opens up somehow, the universe aligning in perfect sequence, and then it’s gone as suddenly, deteriorating back into confusion and chaos.

“My pleasure,” I return.

I find the door easily, banging it closed behind me, and I stomp down the stairs, feeling dirty and needing to leave that apartment, the building, the street, get away from him before this sickening feeling gets into my bones.

* * *

I sit on the steps of the gas station that’s closed for the night, watching the cigarette smoke spiral up and into the dark. Andy’s still taking a piss by the roadside though the night has swallowed him up, and I can’t see him. The bus is parked in front of me, illuminated by the blinking light above my head. The door’s open, and the driver’s seat is empty, the radio quietly playing and reaching my ears. Spencer’s sitting on the steps of the bus, smoking like I am. He hasn’t said a word yet. I haven’t said a word either. Last time we spoke he managed to punch me.

He’s flying straight to Cincinnati from Vancouver. Well, through Chicago. I heard him talking to Pete since our manager needs to know where we are. I remember when we were younger and spent entire nights listening to the radio together, making bets which one of us could sing ‘how do you do what you do to me, I wish I knew, if I knew how you do what you do to me, I’d do it to you’ faster. It was innocent. Now it’s this – barely out of Portland but far enough to be in the middle of nowhere, not near enough to be in Seattle yet. I didn’t give a fuck about tonight’s crowd and neither did he. Our performances are automatic. We don’t have the heart.

Andy wanders back, readjusting the glasses on his nose. “You got a cigarette?” he asks me, and I go through my pockets and hand him one. He lights it himself, staring at us cautiously, like maybe worried Spencer and I will start exchanging punches again. They all act so carefully around me now, or at least the roadies do. Even William, though he can’t actually know what happened. What I said. What Brendon said.

But they know where I went and that I came back by myself. I’m not thinking about it anymore. Can’t think about it.

My fingers have twisted around the cigarette I’m holding, snapping it in two.

The horror of continuity almost gets to me then. No break. No lull. Nothing. Back on the bus, back on the road, like it made no difference, like nothing ever happened or changed, and now we’re driving to a new state, getting further and further away from California, San Francisco, Castro Street, a dry cleaners, a room in the apartment above it, watching the place become more and more miniscule and sinking into oblivion, vanishing off the map. And him with it.

The sensation of rising terror settles heavy in my chest, not accelerating but not fading away either.

“Is that a cat?” Andy asks, breaking the spell. I look up and follow his gaze to two glowing embers at the corner of the bus before they’re gone. Andy walks off to investigate, and I lean against the gas station door behind my back, knees raised.

I know it’s over, like it should have been before it even started. I could see it in the way he looked at me. Hate. Shame. Shame that he had been involved at all. Vile. Cruel. That’s what he said. That’s what I can’t forget. That’s what makes me feel pathetic. That I feel so much.

Spencer clears his throat. “I don’t know how long we can keep doing this.”

I look at him, but he’s focused on his shoes. He smokes languidly like he didn’t just say what he did.

“The band?” I clarify, and he nods.

The rest of the guys are inside, fast asleep. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to, but when I close my eyes, I see things, when it’s too quiet, I hear things, and I twisted in the sheets, pulling them aside, and hidden in the crack between the mattress and the wall was a black t-shirt, soft and worn, white text on the front. Old No. 7. Tennessee Whiskey. Smelled like him.

“It’s not working,” Spencer says, and he doesn’t have to tell me that. It used to work. I used to call Brent and Joe both my best friends. Him too. I used to do a lot of things I no longer do. “There’s too much shit we can’t solve. Brent’s a... He’s a mess about the Jac thing, and when Joe found out about Brent?”

“Yeah.”

Joe went on a rampage, slamming doors and one guitar as he yelled that he was done playing with such an amateur band, that he fucked around but never the wrong people. Like Brent and Jac. Spencer and Haley. Me and.

Spencer sighs loudly, dropping the cigarette on the ground where it lies, emitting smoke into the air with a burning red tip. “I’m not your friend anymore, Ry.”

The night’s humid, endless black above our heads. No stars. No moonlight. Heavy, pregnant clouds just waiting for the right moment to start raining.

“I know that.” It’s a lie.

“Pete keeps saying that we just need a break, but I don’t see us ever getting back from this. He still thinks we’ll go to Europe, but I just...” He sounds pained. At least he cares. Cared. I know he did. I know it must have been bad for it to come to this, worse than I ever realised.

We made a blood oath once. I had no siblings. He didn’t have a brother. We must have been twelve.

So much for that.

If the two remaining shows are the last Followers concerts ever, then what was it all for?

Andy returns, still smoking his cigarette. “The cat didn’t want to play. Shame that.” He rolls his shoulders. “Should we get back on the road?”

Spencer stands up, readjusting his shirt slightly. Light catches the wedding ring on his finger. He’s started wearing it now despite Pete’s fierce objections. He’s made his choice. He’s got his girls. What does he need an adopted brother for now?

He looks at me with calm blue eyes, and it’s not a scrutinising gaze at all but I feel myself shrinking from it, anyway. “I hope you get over him soon.”

I look up at him in half-surprise, half-guilt. Andy clears his throat and pretends he didn’t hear, and Spencer disappears back onto the bus. Andy follows him, but I stay on the single step, feeling sick to my stomach.

It feels like something’s been ripped in two inside me.

I look to the back half of the bus. I don’t want to go back there, to that small gritty space, that bed where Brendon’s slept, that place where we kissed for the first time since the first time, not that I kept count of the times after that. I lost count of the kisses. Of everything.

“You coming?” Andy calls out from the driver’s seat. My legs feel weak as I stand up. The first drop of water lands on me as I walk over and climb the steps up. The doors close behind me, and Andy fiddles with the radio.

The thought of going back to the memories feels suffocating. Lying there and having to think of the bunk that’s empty, how he’s gone, how he’s never coming back. His words. What he said. The look in his eyes. How he couldn’t believe that he was letting himself fall in love with me. He was falling in love. Fuck, I can’t even breathe.

“Can I drive?”

Andy looks at me in surprise. I used to drive every now and then on our previous tour. Andy was there so he knows that. Not on this tour. Not anymore. I’m too important now.

“I’ve got it.”

“We’re a fucking hour away from Seattle. I can drive,” I say angrily. “You hate driving.” He does. He constantly complains about it.

“Yeah, but you’ve never driven this bus.”

“It’s a bus. The road’s straight. I can do it.”

“You been drinking?”

“Nothing all day.”

He looks sceptical but stands up, motioning me to sit down. I do, my fingers landing on the cool steering wheel as my feet find the pedals.

“Seatbelt.”

“You serious?”

He nods, so I roll my eyes and oblige before switching the engine on. The bus jerks and inches forward, and I get us back on the road, the headlights sweeping across the asphalt of the highway, the yellow centrelines appearing and disappearing. It’s raining now, the road glistening black. “Alright,” Andy says after a few minutes. “Wake me up when we get there.”

He disappears from my peripheral vision, and I lean back against the seat, letting the solitude engulf me. The radio is playing the newest hits, and when I hear the first three notes of _Less Than Graceful_ , I switch stations, not wanting to hear my own voice. Classical music crackles through the speakers, a melodic and calm up and down of a piano. Chopin.

The rain keeps beating against the windshield, the wipers sliding across the glass swiftly. The sound of it mixes with the B flat minor key of the music. Brendon could do that too. Play any note at all, and he’d know which one it was. He was more talented than he let on, saying he had no interest in trying to be a musician. We certainly provided him with a warning example.

The second I let my thoughts stray to him, I feel nauseous. It’s a sickening burn, and I know that I wasn’t quick enough. He found a way in. Got into my bones.

I swear under my breath and lift my ass off the seat slightly, retrieving the flask from my back pocket. I had to steal it back from Spencer behind his back. I keep one hand on the wheel as I unscrew the cork, bringing the mouth to my lips quickly. Vodka pours down my throat effortlessly.

And then I realise there is no solution or escape. It doesn’t matter if I’m somewhere that’s infested with memories of him or whether I’m on stage at a venue I’ve never been to. I can’t shake it off. The feeling. The memories. And I want to tell him I’m so fucking sorry, but then I don’t. I want to tell him to go fuck himself.

He didn’t care about the hype. He didn’t care that I froze up in interviews or that the only way I could get on stage was for him to whisper reassurances into my ear, fleeting kisses in a bathroom, something, anything for me to hold onto. To stop me from slipping in too deep. He knew all the things I never wanted anyone to know, and he was falling in love with me anyway. Me. Out of all the people in the world. And not that artificial me that the fans adore – that person doesn’t even exist – but the actual me, and I don’t even know who that is half the time, but he seemed to.

I turn the radio louder, my hands trembling and my heart beating like I’m running to my defeat, falling into something I can’t climb out of. I bring the flask to my lips again; it’s like water and has no effect that I can notice. I still feel the pain.

The rain is so hard that it’s hammering the bus roof, hundreds of droplets beating against it, drumming and pounding into my brain. I’ve been driving faster since Andy left, flying along the pitch black road, and I feel weak and sick and tired.

I wanted him to love me.

I take in a shuddering breath and wipe my cheeks, shaking it off, shaking it off, but it’s not going anywhere. The yellow centrelines aren’t where they should be. They are right ahead of me, and the bus is in the middle of the road now, and I see headlights ahead that aren’t ours. But it’s like that morning in Arizona, when I smoked a cigarette by the side of the road and Brendon came over to talk to me, snapping my picture, telling me of his travels and smiling at me, and I could see a truck coming in the distance, knowing that it would never reach me. Reach us. That one moment stretched to infinity.

I want to remember that morning. I want to remember that feeling, that spark deep inside my chest whenever I looked at him.

Now he’s gone.

It’s just a Buick, the car that’s honking and flashing its lights in the rain, and the highway almost seems flooded, like we’re driving on a lake or a sea or an ocean.

Just a car.

But then we make impact out of nowhere, the infinity getting cut short. It’s loud, the crash, and I get thrown forwards and then slammed backwards. The entire world tilts, balance and gravity ceasing to exist. The bus crashes to its side but doesn’t come to a stop, sliding along, and the screech of metal is loud and sparks burn my skin. Blood and glass fill my mouth, but the radio keeps playing.

The radio keeps playing.

 

 

_end of Vol.1_


End file.
